


Teach Me

by MyRelapse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Developing Friendships, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Fluff and Smut, Gay Parents, Happy Ending, Healing, Light Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Therapy, Trauma, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 87,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyRelapse/pseuds/MyRelapse
Summary: Mickey is a respected makeup and effects artist, teaching part time at a prestigious academy. Ian is a student, eager to learn the trade.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 361
Kudos: 211





	1. It Has to Be You

It underwhelmed Mickey that they had stationed the entrance to his school inside a mall. The website made the programs look as world renowned as its reputation. He predicted a standalone building. It denigrated the allure for him, but he understood better than anyone that to judge a book by its cover was flawed. What the facility lacked in grandeur, it made up for in prestige, and it eased his mediocre first impression that it wasn’t the only campus.

One draw to the program being the successful business owners who were once graduates. They plastered companies he recognized and names he revered all over the brochures. It gave him a sense of confidence, no matter how distorted it might have been. Sure, to invest over twenty thousand dollars that he needed to gain through student loans was a risk, but with high-profile entrepreneurs flying out of the place like rockets, what could go wrong? He would attend one of very few respected schools in the film industry, everyone who was anyone, would recognize it on a resumé.

The program had a well fleshed out curriculum, a year in total. He learned everything from colour theory in bridal makeup, to how to create silicone prosthetics from scratch. He hadn’t come alive until they introduced him to the special effects portion of his education. The rest was interesting, and he found unexpected talent in the beauty realm, but there was no beating the adrenaline that pumped through him with the fixings for monster makeup between his fingers.

His attitude, a jarring amount, overshadowed his love for makeup effects. He was cordial as he could stand to be with his classmates, but many of them got under his skin, and not in a good way. He wasn’t there to socialize, and the catty behavior between the cliques made his gut churn. Mickey had one shot to make a comfortable life for himself, he would not squander it by screwing up his reputation over petty drama. This made him appear standoffish, and in a community where friendly ass kissing was fundamental, he worried it would bite him in the ass.

It was astonishing to Mickey as it was to his peers they had given him the freedom to join the prosthetics team upon his graduation. Somehow, the instructors took to him and his demeanor. When they presented the job opportunity to him, it beat the hell out of hustling in the world of freelance or ending up at Sephora until he’d gained enough traction in his portfolio. He accepted the job with brief hesitation.

Mickey had been a mentor for six years, having breaks between school contracts to work on set for whatever local films captivated his metropolis. He established a name for himself, one he took drastic measures to safeguard. Temptation existed in every crevice of the industry, teams working together for long periods of time on a project they poured their collective souls into. He considered breaking his cardinal rule once or twice, getting caught up in an office romance, but pulled himself out of it. It was too easy to get tangled up in the warmth of a makeup trailer, sucking face with an eager actor or collaborator. The hormone driven idiocy happened all the time to his cohorts, and with it grew a landslide of drama. It thrilled him to ignore the conduct with an eye roll and a clutch to his skill. Unless he was the department head, in which case he fired anyone who didn’t abide by his level of professionalism.

Teaching was simpler by a long shot. It was commonplace for his students to be much younger than him, removing the attraction. He didn’t devote twenty-eight years of his life clawing his way through hell, to wind up plummeting back inside over some doe eyed student batting their lashes at his expertise. Relationships that went beyond the harmonies of his fellow instructors were off his radar within the walls of campus. It suited him well and was the backbone of his career. He was proud to see some of his students become acclaimed in their respective trade. To endure a sea of lazy morons to get there was the cost of conducting business.

“How many dipshits does it take to fill a bucket with tepid water?” Mickey griped, slurping up the tapioca pearls from his mango bubble tea. “I had to send most of ‘em back to the sinks more than once.”

Mandy chuckled as she spun noodles around her plastic fork. “Not everyone is a gore guru like you.”

“ _Guru_? We’re talking about water temperature, Mands. I’m not asking these morons to sculpt for the next major motion picture. Collect lukewarm water in a bucket. That’s it.”

“Try having to make nice with roid monkeys all day. That shit has my brain oozing out my ears. I literally had to walk some asshole through every supplement on the shelf, when I knew he was just staring at my ass the entire time.”

Mandy nabbed a full-time job at a health store in the same mall, a whim she landed on one afternoon while she waited for Mickey to get out of class. The pay was shit, but it allowed them to stick together during their transition from Chicago, and being the codependent siblings they were, it was a convenience they didn’t overlook. Much like Mickey’s position, she intended for hers to be temporary. When they realized it wasn’t, and Mandy made manager, they accepted that their current situation was leaps and bounds better than whatever mess they had waiting for them back home.

“If he comes around again, send me a text and I’ll kick his teeth in.”

She grinned at his protective nature. “I got it covered. At least my feminine wiles keep them coming back and buying shit. it’s just annoying y’know? I gotta find something better.”

“How ‘bout we binge horror flicks tonight? We’re overdue for some George A. Romero. Pizza’s on me,” Mickey suggested through a mouthful of stolen chicken chow mein.

“I’m down. You owe me a meal, since you’ve eaten all my damn lunch.”

\----------

Mickey rode the escalator, scoffing at the lonely piano sitting just outside the food court. Someone donated it to the mall, and it was an untouched eyesore in his opinion. In all the years he’d sauntered past it, he had witnessed no one sit down at the bench and play. Not that the instrument looked like it had been hand painted by a group of sugar high kindergarteners, or that his mother used to play before she died. It just seemed sad, is all. Why waste wood and ivory in a shopping centre full of uninspired duds?

A husky voice distracted him from his ruminations. “Uh—Mr. Milkovich?”

His students knew to call him by his first name. As he scrubbed his thumb over his brow bone, he whirled around expecting to see some confused kid scrambling behind him with his disheveled makeup kit. What he saw instead made him swallow hard.

“It’s Mickey. Mr. Milkovich was my piece of shit father. Who’s asking?”

The athletic redhead squared his shoulders, a freckled hand smoothing through his hair. “It’s Ian—um, I’m Ian Gallagher. I’m supposed to be in your prosthetics class, but I had a family emergency, so I missed orientation.”

“Emergency? Someone drop dead?” Mickey asked, arms akimbo.

“No.”

“Then I will hold you to the same standard as the rest of my students. You miss a class and I boot your ass out. Talk to admin at the front desk, they’ll find an upcoming date to begin your course.”

Mickey started back toward the entrance, wanting to get a head start on prep for his next lesson. When a firm hand turned him back around, he had to count back from ten to keep from pummelling the towering jackass.

“I don’t want another teacher. You’re supposed to be the best, and I can’t afford less than that.”

Mickey understood. He hadn’t cut corners during his year as a student, chasing every opportunity to work with the pros. But he was never late, and he had perfect attendance. “That’s a shame, kid. I don’t have enough time to catch you up. I promise you, the rest of the team is just as good.”

The redhead stepped in front of him before he had the chance to walk away. “I need to keep my spot. I’m a fast learner, you won’t even know I was absent.”

“This isn’t high school. I don’t do homework, and there’s no catching up. Everything is hands on. Some things you can’t skip otherwise the rest of your project won’t work out.”

He watched the pupils in Ian’s emerald green eyes dilate. “Did I miss an integral piece to my last project on the first day? Seems ridiculous if you ask me.”

“Well, I ain’t asking you, and now I’m late, so like I said—go talk to admin.”

Mickey stepped around the determined student and past the front desk. He punched the call button, a glance in the mirror beside the elevator stressing the scalding glare being sent his way as the disillusioned redhead waited in line to fix his schedule.

Tough luck.

\----------

Maybe he was a little grumpy. They compiled his current class of every type of idiot he’d ever met, testing his ability as an instructor. It was obvious which of his students were serious about their training, and which had chosen beauty school as a cop out to spend daddy’s college fund and keep themselves from a four year commitment at some pretentious university. He was used to having a mix of both, but this group seemed geared toward the latter.

A headache nagged at him, the kind that built at his temples. The florescent lighting against stainless steel countertops exacerbated his pain with fervor. On rare occasion he would encourage his TA’s in taking the reins, he was coaching them for a similar position to his. It was a relief, better than Tylenol, to have extra hands on deck. There wasn’t enough acetaminophen on the planet to take the edge off having to educate people too focused on which celebrity was having an affair that week.

His most competent assistant, a five foot nothing spit fire with long ginger locks, seemed to have him pegged with almost spooky accuracy. She was his favourite protégé, and though he’d never admit it, he trusted her with his work more than anyone he’d met in the business.

“Grab yourself a smoke break, Mickey. I’ve got it covered,” Rachel said, giving him a nudge. “You’ll need all the nicotine you can get with this bunch.”

“Nah, I’m good. Five hours into our second class and we’re already running behind, I better stick around.”

Rachel tied her hair back, steeled against his stubborn resolve. “I can see your angry neck vein. Nobody has a good time when that thing appears. Go. You can take over when you get back.”

She wasn’t taking no for an answer. And if it were anyone else, he’d put his foot down.

“Fine. I’ll be back in twenty. Don’t let anyone burn the place down—review adhesives while I’m gone. Pros-Aide good, Gorilla Glue bad.”

“Oh, come on, they’re not that daft.”

He wasn’t so sure. “Never hurts to be thorough. Don’t need anyone leaving on a stretcher or undergoing plastic surgery. I want them all on the same page when I get back, don’t be afraid to let the cork off the crazy if that’s what it takes.”

Rachel gave a playful growl as she gnashed her teeth. “10-4, boss. Bring me back something caffeinated.”

Now _that_ he could do.

He enjoyed working on the second floor. It was a simple hallway, with a row of rooms to either side. There was an elevator at one end, bathrooms, and what he considered an escape route at the other. The special effects team ran a tight ship, but the carpet was no stranger to random spills and dabs of UltraCal cement. Bags of the stuff lay stacked outside the classroom doors, a popular commodity for making life casts and molds. They kept the rest of the school squeaky clean to impress curious parents and recent high school graduates, taking a campus tour to decide if their institute measured up. His floor was a safe space, familiar.

There was a single room tucked off to the side of the elevator, meant to be an office, but it didn’t belong to anyone. It became a storage room of sorts, years of generic molds hoarded away for the students who couldn’t handle alginate covering every inch above their shoulders, except for their nostrils. It thrilled most people to experience their first ever life casting process, and although it only lasted about half an hour with the right help, there would always be one or two who couldn’t handle the anxiety and claustrophobia. He was a hard ass in most situations, but where trust in others was a necessity, he couldn’t fault them for standing back.

Sometimes he would sit at the cluttered desk, in a dusty old chair, reflecting on the recent years. Mickey didn’t have time to do such a thing at his own desk. He was a well-oiled machine in front of his students. He didn’t even keep his cigarettes in his classroom. They remained hidden in the diffused light of the pseudo office. There was no particular reason for this that he could identify. It felt like the right thing to do, setting a responsible example and all.

A rusted drawer squeaked as he pulled out his pack of smokes. He checked his phone. No text messages from Mandy needing a rescue. He sauntered down the hall, taking the fire exit down a flight of cement stairs that led to a well manicured courtyard at the back of the mall.

Passersby frequented the walking paths, but they backed it up into a residential area lined with townhouses, so it was peaceful. There were two benches surrounded by grassy patches. He’d sit there only when he intended to look up at his window to check for obvious bloodshed. Otherwise he sat on the stairs at the other side of the fire escape, people watching and feeding seagulls when he brought his favourite snacks.

“Animal crackers?” Ian smirked, plonking down beside him on the cold steps. “Got kids or something?”

“You always appear out of thin air to judge a man’s snack choices?”

“Nah, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Mickey pulled a cigarette from the box with his mouth, giving the redhead a sidelong glance. “You got balls, Gallagher. Most people would think that was creepy as fuck.”

Ian laughed, a warm breathy sound he'd listen to on repeat with no complaints. “Most people, but not you? Hey—You remembered my name.”

“Only ‘cause you annoyed the shit out of me this morning, fucked up my entire day,” Mickey snorted.

Ian chewed at the dry skin on his bottom lip, padding his pockets until Mickey handed him a cigarette. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s a Southside thing. If I always took no for an answer, we’d have to live without hot water and lights until we stole enough shit to pay the bills.”

“ _Wait_ —you’re from Chicago?”

“Born and raised,” Ian said, flashing a toothy grin before his cheeks hollowed around his smoke.

“That’s wild, man. I don’t meet many people out this way who even know where that neighborhood is. I’m Southside too.”

Ian pulled his lower lip into his mouth, eyebrows furrowed together. “I know.”

“You _are_ a stalker, aren’t you?”

Puffs of grey smoke billowed with his chortles. “You were my inspiration to get the fuck outta dodge. It was cool to see you make a name for yourself. I couldn’t wait to get away from that hell hole. Took me a while, but shit, did it ever feel good.”

Mickey’s heart thundered in his chest, his mouth going dry. He blamed the cancer stick. He wasn’t the type to let some gorgeous kid from his neighborhood set his nerve endings on fire. So what if he was from a similar walk of life that only a few could ever comprehend? It didn’t change the reality that his tolerance for tardiness was zero.

“Get your schedule sorted out?”

Ian gave a slow nod. “Yep. I’ll be waiting out the next two months ‘til your next class starts.”

“You’re kidding. Why, man? I told you—all the other instructors are great. Who do you think taught me everything I know?”

“I’m not looking for great. I want the best.”

Mickey’s mind raced. “You won’t get to graduate with your class.”

Ian hopped to his feet. The redhead looked ten feet tall from where he was sitting, the sun catching his hair at an angle that glistened every strand of copper. “All good. They’re way younger than me, anyway. Have little in common.”

“You’re just gonna sit around for months like a stubborn asshole?”

Ian took the stairs two at a time, shirt clinging to the ripples on his muscular back. What he shouted over his shoulder made his stomach twist like a pretzel. “Worth the wait. Thanks for the smoke, Mickey.”

\----------

“What an insufferable shithead, right?”

Mandy dropped beside her brother on the black leather couch, her lap overflowing with chips and bags of candy, tearing one open with her teeth. “Sounds to me like he knows what he wants.”

“He missed the first day.”

“So he damaged your ego, get over it.”

Mickey snatched the pack of gummy worms from her hand while she was busy rummaging through the bag, producing the exact dejected expression he was looking for. “It’s not an ego thing. You don’t get away with shit like that in the industry. I wouldn’t be where I am if I just fucked off whenever life got rough.”

“To turn away a kid from our neck of the woods is a dick move, too savage for even _your_ mean spirited ass. Maybe it was terrible emergency, Mick. Did you ask?”

His throat tightened, the butterflies in the pit of his stomach transforming into angry wasps of unfettered guilt. “No. His problems are none of my business.”

Tilting her head the way she always did before imparting her sisterly advice, she fed the wasps a generous dose of contrition. “You made it where you are today because someone gave you a chance. Your work ethic is one thing, but without the people who took you under their wing, you might be organizing boxes of lipstick in some snooty cougar’s boutique.”

She was onto something. He hated when she was right. “You’re a pain in the ass.”

“And you’re delaying our pleasant evening of zombies and guts. Get a move on, jackass.”

He kicked his feet up on the coffee table, as his hand skimmed the wall to turn off the lights, the darkness emphasizing the massive flatscreen TV they spent a sinful chunk of their paychecks on when they first moved into their apartment.

“Gonna scream like a little bitch and scare the neighbors again?” Mickey teased, lifting his arm as she snuggled up at his side.

“Shut up. I swear it doesn’t matter how many times I watch you create this exact shit in our living room with all your fancy equipment and jars of nasty crap. Still freaks me out so bad.”

“Yeah, well, I got your back. No zombies will take a chunk out of you. Might have the opposite affect though. One bite outta us, and the fuckers turn into Milkoviches. That’s a fate far worse than the living dead.”

Mandy giggled against his ribcage. “Could you imagine? Now that’s what I call a box office hit.”

“Doomed to a life of running drugs and sharing a dilapidated house with Terry and his egg farts.”

“Gross. Please fucking press play before I end up with night terrors.”

\----------

Mandy made a habit of turning their movie nights into a red carpet event, flooding their place with treats and every blanket and pillow they owned. He let her turn their living room into a theatre, the only time he bottled up his sarcasm. It was something he figured she would have done in their childhood home if it hadn’t been so violent. He wanted to give her something wholesome, even if, like clockwork, she passed out halfway through the first flick.

“Mandy—you awake?” Mickey whispered, leaning forward to scan her face for signs of life. She made her way to his lap, where she drifted away while the film distracted him. “’Course not. Remind me to never leave you on watch when the apocalypse comes.”

His phone pinged in the kitchen, the glow from his screen breaking up the shadows. He lifted her head, sliding out from under her before replacing his lap with a pillow. She slept through thunderstorms, but he learned early on that if he shut off the TV, plunging them into silence, she’d wake up in a panic. He turned down the volume just enough that the action scenes wouldn’t startle her, shuffling toward his chirping device.

There was an email notification from an address he didn’t recognize.

**_Hey Mickey,_ **

**_Charlotte at the front desk gave me your work email. Hope that’s okay. She was also the one who gave me a heads up about your smoke pit hideaway, so I think she likes me. It got me thinking, you should trust your colleagues and give me a shot. I won’t let you down again and I really am sorry for disrespecting your time._ **

**_I’m willing to wait, but it would make my life easier if I didn’t have to. The sooner I can find work on set, the better. Student loans and my shitty job leave little but pocket lint if you catch my drift. Help a broke comrade get his career off the ground?_ **

**_Ian._ **

The redhead had gumption, no doubt about it. If he made the fucker wait, he’d spend the next couple months being bombarded by his puppy dog eyes, and feeble attempts to sway his vote. He was getting too old to play cat and mouse.

_**Gallagher,** _

_**I’ll see you in class tomorrow. Remember to bring your kit, or you’ll be dead in the water all day. I’ve never loaned out my shit, I won’t start now.** _

_**Don’t be late.** _

_**Mickey.** _


	2. Guitar Pickin' Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian finds friendship where he least expects.

Ian sat cross-legged in bed with his stained duvet wrapped snug around his body. His laptop rested on a pillow in front of him, the fan humming at the base of the old computer, as he foresaw it would overheat at any moment. He had to keep his email short and sweet, despite wanting to ask Mickey a hundred questions, followed up by his own personal life story on the Southside. He hoped against all odds that a mix of wit and confidence would persuade his teacher to give him another shot.

Meeting Mickey in person gave him a rush he didn’t expect. The man emanated good looks. A blind man would appreciate the intensity of that dark hair kissing the space just above his icy blue eyes. Their encounter was more than that. The creases on his forehead accented by the faint lines etched at the edges of his eyes when he smiled reminded Ian that they grew up in the same neighborhood. It was an unspoken truth of squalor and struggle, and being around him felt a little like going home without the strife. It was nice to know someone with a similar walk of life, in a brand new city, even if he was certain his presence annoyed Mickey. He was never great at first impressions, anyhow.

A chime rang out as he received an almost immediate response. His laptop took the liberty to shut down before he caught it in time to read the answer. It involved great self control not to toss the machine out his single pane window, to crash on the pavement below, and if it weren’t for the world’s rudest roommate sleeping a wall away, he might’ve done it. Ian paced at the foot of his bed, clad in only his boxer briefs and socks, pressing the power button with passion until it booted up.

The instructor’s words were like iced tea on the hottest day. He was in.

He didn’t mind waiting. It wasn’t a ploy to twist Mickey’s arm or shake guilty feelings to the surface. Ian practiced patience all his life, willing to be selfless to a fault. He never wanted to be an inconvenience, or hinder someone else. He trusted in the old phrase, _good things come to those who wait_ , and in his experience, it had been authentic.

It’s just that for once in his adult life, his need to create eclipsed his desire to be amiable. He had come too far to lie down and let his genetics rob him of his potential. The prospect of securing a job in the film industry filled him with adrenaline and opened up a road map to his future he had never seen before. The career department of his school arranged some volunteer work at a local film school. He did hair and makeup for students acting in short films, and just that bite of set life had him gearing up for a career of long hours in unpredictable weather, and early mornings in makeup trailers.

Ian grabbed his faded guitar, strumming a tune that had been cycling through his head all day. It was a minor triumph. He was on the last leg of achieving his diploma. A burst of excitement tingled in his chest.

“Shut the fuck up, already!” His roommate croaked, thumping on the adjoining wall. “I’m gonna break that damn thing if you don’t go to sleep.”

Ian tapped the pick guard with the tips of his fingers, running his hand along the strings before tucking the instrument away for the night. A new place to live was at the top of his list. Somewhere he would be able to lounge around and play music without restraint. It was challenging in an expensive city where renting two hundred square feet of space required your life and limb, and maybe a slice of your joy. But as with everything else, all in good time.

He pulled up the email once more. He let it sink in, too elated to fall asleep without a smile stinging his cheeks. Even though his instincts screamed at him that his teacher found him agitating, it was a second chance he would never take for granted.

\----------

The mall was a refreshing surprise on his first day. Not only was the artistry academy inside, but every other amenity he needed was within walking distance. He had a membership at the gym, a loyalty card at the grocery store that racked up an impressive amount of points, and a friend behind the counter of the dollar store where he found some supplies he needed for his kit. There was even a shop with a smoothie bar and endless shelves of supplements beside the same escalator he rode to the front entrance of his school. It helped make his transition easier, not having to adventure too far from his place to find what he needed. Routine was paramount to his mental health, and he found that it all fell into position in the plaza.

A piano taunted him each day, tempted to sit down and play. He busked for a living, catching the odd gig at a local restaurant or café, so it was strange to even him he hadn’t sat down to play it. His mother had come around a little in her last years, and when she dropped in, it was her request every time to sit beside him while he took them on a melodious journey. It was on his list to give the food court piano a spin.

The gym opened before the main doors to the mall, accessible by its own entrance. Every morning he woke with the sun, sneaking out of the condo he shared with individuals he hoped to never meet again once he graduated. He spent as little time as possible at home and looked forward to the escape. It cleared his mind, being able to work through his anxiety with cardio and weightlifting. The showers at the gym had better water pressure, too. If they rented out a spot on the carpet to sleep, he wouldn’t hesitate packing up his few belongings and taking up their offer.

A vigorous workout followed by a boost of fiber and berries started his day right. He couldn’t always afford to buy the drink, but it was a treat he tried to stay committed to at least once a week.

“How’s it going, Clay?” Mandy greeted, scooping the ingredients for his usual smoothie into a blender. “Good workout this morning?”

It had been nine months, and he still hadn’t straightened out the account on file. A previous employee made the mistake of putting his middle name as his first, and he ran with it. Ian didn’t have the heart to correct her, and it had been so long that it seemed awkward to do it at all. He looked forward to small talk with the sardonic blonde. Their personalities meshed like peanut butter and jelly. He advanced from Clayton to Clay, which amounted to an upgrade in status with Mandy. She held her cards close, and it seemed like a privilege that she let him in at all. He didn’t want to complicate their pleasant interactions with technicalities. They had never spent time together outside the confines of the mall, but the friendship mattered.

“It was great. I’m sore as shit today, though. Didn’t sleep too good last night.”

“Douchebag roommates again? I’m so ready to show up and deck those assholes in the mouth.”

“Down, girl,” he teased with a weary chuckle. “Nah, my mind was going a mile a minute. I’m starting a new module today.”

Mandy sported a contagious grin. “Fuck yeah! Which one?”

Ian licked a sticky patch of blueberry syrup from the side of his hand before stirring the frozen beverage with his straw. “Prosthetics.”

“My brother teaches prosthetics! They’ve got a kick ass team of instructors up there. It’s supposed to be a lot of fun. Do you know who your teacher is yet?”

His cheeks prickled with heat, motivating him to mosey down the aisles of product to hide his obvious physical reaction. “Uh—Mickey.”

Her squeal could shatter a house of mirrors two States over. “That’s him—that’s my brother! He’s a cocky little shit, but he’s awesome at what he does. You’re gonna love him.”

If Ian stuck his head in the freezer of ice, he’d melt every cube in record time. “I don’t think he likes me much.”

“That sounds like Mickey. You know how I have chronic resting bitch face? He’s got the male equivalent to that. Give it time, he’ll warm up to you.”

Ian nodded, thanking her for the smoothie as he turned to leave. Before he made it out the door, she interrupted the flurry of nervous thoughts scurrying through his brain.

“Apple fritters.”

“Huh?”

“They’re his favourite. The coffee shop upstairs does them best, but he wouldn’t turn down an apple fritter if he found a box of ‘em in a storm drain.”

Ian couldn’t help but chuckle. “Are you telling me to bribe my teacher with donuts?”

“I’m telling you that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and I happen to have the inside scoop he left the house hungry and late this morning,” Mandy said, her singsong voice and playful wink reigniting an indistinguishable semblance of home.

“Thanks, Mandy.”

\----------

Ian waited outside the classroom twenty minutes early. The door remained locked, as he stood alone in the drafty corridor, apple cinnamon wafting through the paper bag in his hand. He wriggled against his guitar strap, placing the treats on a nearby chair, so he could adjust the tension on his out of tune strings to keep his chilly hands busy. They turned the temperature on the second floor straight up to polar bears in the arctic. He’d be sure to bring a hoodie next time.

He glanced down the hall, checking for any signs of alumni, grazing his thumb across the strings, buttery chords melting away in a pleasant echo. Music never failed to take him away, his eyes closing out of instinct, as each note blended into a fantasy.

“Never took you for the Johnny Cash type,” Mickey said, startling him from his respite.

“Sorry—I didn’t hear the elevator.”

“What’re you sorry for? We could use more music around here, man. How long you been playing? You’re good.”

Mickey fumbled with his keys, dropping them on the ground with a grumble before bending over to pick them back up. Ian’s eyes dragged along the instructor’s body, landing on his plump backside, reprimanding himself in silence for letting his mind wander.

“Since I was a kid. Is it too early to come in?”

“I rarely let anyone in until a few minutes before class starts. It’s my time to prep. You okay to hang out in the hallway?”

Ian gave an enthusiastic thumbs up, gesturing to his guitar. “You bet.”

Mickey closed the door with a click, leaving him to the paper bag of sugary dough burning a hole in his uneasiness.

It wasn’t long before the rest of his classmates arrived, lining up outside the door. The once quiet hallway reverberated with ear splitting conversation, one person talking over another until it sounded like a makeshift concert hall, neighboring classrooms filling by the elevator load. Their dark haired instructor poked his head out, warning them to keep it down unless they wanted to spend the afternoon deep cleaning. The clamoring quelled for a short time, the group feeding off each other and raising the pitch once again.

“Come on, guys. Show some respect,” Ian stated, shocking his peers. “This isn’t middle school. Some of us are paying to be here.”

Mickey opened the door just in time for his outburst to dissipate, Ian’s heart taking a prompt leap into his throat when the instructor quirked a brow in his direction. His classmates piled into the room, leaving them alone in the hall.

“You didn’t eat your breakfast,” Mickey murmured, jutting his chin toward the crumpled bag.

“Oh—yeah. I um, that’s not mine.”

“Whose is it?”

“Well, I grabbed it for you on my way up. I thought you might be hungry,” he stammered.

Mickey studied him through squinted eyes, and it took everything in Ian not to vomit on his shoes in panic. The way the instructor chewed at the inside of his bottom lip was agonizing.

“You bought me breakfast?”

“No.”

“You _didn’t_ buy me breakfast—what’s in the bag then?” Mickey asked, his impish grin making the pit of Ian’s stomach twirl.

“Fritters. Apple ones.”

“I don’t like apple fritters,” Mickey deadpanned.

Damn it, Mandy. He was banking on breaking the ice, a peace offering to apologize for missing class. “What kind do you like?”

Mickey tittered, swiping the bag. “I’m just fucking with you, Gallagher. These are my favourite. You a mind reader or something?”

Ian tried to steady himself. “You’re a dick.”

“I know—I’m sorry,” Mickey smirked. “Come on in, man. We can’t keep the gaggle of gossips alone too long. We got a fun day ahead of us.”

Mickey pressed a gentle palm at his lower back, guiding him into the room. All his senses evaded him. It was a fleeting touch, but it tempted him to check his skin for evidence of the burn.

\----------

Fun was an understatement. It was hands down his most enjoyable module and it was only his first day. In the months leading up to it, he surprised himself with a beauty brush in his hand. He liked the artform of bridal and fashion makeup, and the special effects realm was incredible. Prosthetics was another world. It was refreshing to get his hands dirty, learning the tricks of the industry from experts who created some of the most notable pieces throughout TV and film history.

Mandy wasn’t far off, either. Mickey was outstanding. It illuminated him in confidence when he talked about his craft, his explanations concise and entertaining to follow. He used food references a lot, when describing certain methods, which made everyone giggle and brought the group together. His classmates had been a shit show throughout the year, so he didn’t have high hopes for them in such a specialized course. Mickey’s ability to capture their interest spoke volumes about his talent. Even the most airheaded students paid attention.

Ian took notes, recording almost everything the man had to say, the act helping him stray from just staring at him like the work of brilliance he was. Everything down to his mannerisms was intriguing. He seemed wise, yet playful and shy all at once. Ian had never been so eager to get to know someone in his lifetime, and so quick.

“Alright, guys. That’s it for today—make sure you bring clothes you don’t mind messing up tomorrow. Matter of fact, here on out it’s a good idea to keep your best threads at home. It only gets messier,” Mickey explained, clasping his hands together. “I don’t wanna see Gucci sweaters and shit.”

The group laughed before they cleared out, one student hanging back to chat their instructor up, playing with her curls as she flirted. It didn’t bother Ian. Annoying, sure. But if he were a cucumber, he’d be as cool as they came. He didn’t know Mickey well enough to let himself get bent out of shape. He was twenty-six years old, for Christ’s sake, and the man was his teacher. Still, her voice was bordering on shrill and he would pay good money if he had it, to see Mickey slam a lemon meringue pie in her face.

He slipped his kit over his shoulder as he trudged past the love birds without so much as a glance sideways. It was nauseating how some girls would throw themselves onto their teachers like they held the elixir for immortality. It had nothing to do with Mickey in specific.

He pressed the elevator button so hard his thumb lost colour, convinced if he kept at it, the contraption would have no choice but to hurry. To his chagrin, the doors didn’t slide open until his coquettish classmate was standing beside him, giggling under her breath.

“Gallagher!” Mickey called out, ushering him to come back before disappearing into the classroom.

The bashful girl all but skipped into the elevator, staring Ian down until the doors closed on her antics. If Ian’s eyes could roll clean into the back of his brain, that’s where they’d be.

He retraced his sulking steps, shaking his head at his own absurd behavior. When he walked back into the room, Mickey was sitting on his desk, one leg swinging over the side. He wore the same grin from earlier.

“You forgot your guitar.”

“Oh crap—thanks. I can’t believe I didn’t notice. I take it with me everywhere.”

“Happens when you’re in a rush,” Mickey said with a shrug. “You look upset, was it not what you expected?”

“It was better. The way you explain things—I could listen to you for hours. I learned a lot.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

“Nothing. Tired, I guess,” Ian lied, forcing a smile. “I’ll feel better after a nap.”

Mickey gave him a once over, mouth twitching like he had something he wanted to say. When he didn’t speak, and the stares intensified, Ian shuffled on his feet, edging toward the door.

“Thanks for breakfast,” Mickey blurted. “I didn’t have time to grab anything this morning. It was nice.”

“You let me keep my spot. It’s the least I can do. Were they tasty?”

“The apple fritters?”

“Yeah.”

The instructor’s nose crinkled. “You’ve never tried one?”

“Not that I can remember. Any time my sister brought home a box of donuts, they disappeared before I made it to the table,” Ian chuckled. “Big family.”

Mickey blinked, fidgeting with a loose thread on his shirt. Ian fussed with the collar of his own, an inadvertent way to ventilate his warming torso. He couldn’t help but see a catacomb of stories behind those interesting eyes, tales he’d enjoy listening to one day if Mickey ever got inclined to share.

“I better get going. Thanks for rescuing my night job,” Ian said, knocking the wooden body of his instrument.

“Night job?”

Ian let himself smile, genuinely this time. “Busker. I don’t have a gig set up tonight, so it’s strumming for gratuities until someone yells at me to cut it out.”

Mickey leaned forward with his hands splayed on the desk. “You play music in the streets—for free?”

“Most people drop a tip on their way past, or after they’ve hung around to watch. It’s not so bad,” Ian explained, noting the tattoos on his instructor’s fingers. “I like it.”

The man nodded, letting out a deep breath that he felt the slightest hint of before it dispersed. Ian wondered what it might feel like on his neck, or between their lips. An intrusive thought he had to get under control.

“I started a new gig, too.”

“Music?”

“Nah, um. Life casting. I do it here all day, anyway. There’s a surprising market for it.”

Ian nodded, curious. “People pay you to come over and make cement impressions of them?”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you try it. If I tell you something you have to swear not to laugh,” Mickey said, sliding down from the desk. “Promise?”

“Scout’s honour.”

“Pregnant ladies.”

Ian darted his eyes around, trying to read between the lines. “What about them?”

“Women love having their bellies cast when they’ve got a rug rat on board. They pay out the ears for it too.”

The man standing before him, FUCK-U-UP tattoos dripping alginate over a suburban wife’s baby bump, was too much to picture without falling apart. He gnawed his cheeks raw, trying to contain himself. The instructor noticed with a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth as he waited for the bellows of laughter to escape.

“You must’ve been a shitty Scout,” Mickey teased, drawing out the chortles. “Fucker.”

“I’m—I’m sorry. That’s just—I didn’t expect that,” Ian said, covering his mouth with his hands. “Softens up your bad boy image a bit.”

“Eh, I’m plenty badass still, fuck you very much. It’s interesting, though. I figure I’ll never experience that shit for myself, it’s cool to see second hand. The pay day makes it even better.”

“Don’t want kids?”

The instructor shrugged, stepping forward and closing the gap between them. “Not the conventional way, that’s for sure.”

Ian’s heart galloped until it vibrated his ribcage. Mickey’s lips were close enough that he could see a trail of tiny freckles gracing the rosy surface, like an artist had taken a brush and splattered the most perfect speckles when he was born.

Palms sweating, he tried to remember if he’d brushed his teeth before he left the house, kicking himself for scarfing down that garlic bagel during his lunch break.

He relaxed when Mickey reached his hand up to fix his guitar strap, which had a habit of sliding off his strap button. The leather had seen better days, the oldest of his collection. He needed to replace it.

“Thanks.”

“Any time, Gallagher. See you tomorrow?”

“With bells on.”


	3. Hurry up and Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a rock and a hard place for Mickey.

Every weekday morning for a month, Mickey rode the elevator with a fizz in his stomach. He learned when the bell chimed, and the doors opened, a redhead would wait by his door with a guitar slung around his neck, goofy smile, and all. Ian would fulfil his solo jam session in the hallway, no matter what time he turned up, welcoming him with what he deciphered as excitement.

By the second week, he had to beg the redhead to stop bringing him treats. By the third week, the redhead obliged, much to Mickey’s relief and dismay. His jeans fit a little snug as he gobbled up each donut like they would be his last meal. He was an admirer of sweets; they had engraved the trait on him at birth, but an apple fritter had never tasted so delicious.

Mickey started showing up earlier than usual. Mandy griped about his productivity because it meant she would have to hang around the food court longer, staring at her phone to pass the time. She gave him a glare of suspicion while he rushed around the kitchen tossing lunch in a bag, dabbing cologne under his jaw with his free hand. His sister didn’t pry, even when he could see that she was so full of curiosity her eyes were floating.

He had always looked forward to going to work, because it wasn’t the regular grind. The ability to dive into art every day and get paid for his efforts was dreamlike. But something changed since Ian had come crashing into his world like a six foot, bubble wrapped gift. Work became his safe place in ways it hadn’t been before.

“Do you ever sleep?” Mickey teased, fussing with his keys. “Class doesn’t start for an hour.”

Ian’s brows shot up to his hairline. “No rest for the wicked.”

“You spend so much time in this hallway, your ass is growing roots.”

“You’ve been staring at my ass?” Ian gasped.

“Alright tough guy—cool it.”

The redhead plucked the strings of his acoustic instrument, feigning oblivion. Mickey glanced at the clock on the wall, losing the strength he needed to maintain his rule to keep students out during prep.

“Need me to check for monsters under the desks?”

“Fuck you talkin’ about?”

Ian strummed a spooky tune. “You’re standing in the doorway like someone’s gonna bite you.”

“You grate my nerves, I ever tell you that?”

The redhead laughed. “Yep.”

He tapped his fingers against his thighs, spinning around to entertain the relentless man. “Wanna come help me set up for the day? You remind me of an abandoned kitten in a damn cardboard box, sitting out here.”

Ian’s hand froze on his guitar. He was pensive, turning Mickey’s legs to jelly. When the redhead nodded, his eyes were glistening like it had given him something precious. His chest clenched so tight he had to look away. Ian slid past him in the doorway, a brush of contact causing him to tingle all over. His scent dragged behind him, reminding Mickey of freshly picked strawberries.

“Do you miss working on set?” Ian asked, scraping a chair across the floor to sit at the opposite side of his desk.

“Not really. I mean, I enjoy the work, but it’s different.”

Ian seemed to contemplate his answer as the morning sun pooled through the windows at the back. Warm light painted the edges of his silhouette and he looked like something sent from Heaven, highlighting each hair accenting his freckled arms.

“That’s what I wanna do. There’s something about being able to put my imagination on someone’s body and seeing them bring it to life on screen. Like being a part of something greater, but still being able to sit back and enjoy the small things.”

Mickey’s breath picked up, his heart thumping so hard he thought the motion might jolt him in his chair. “That’s what got me out here, man.”

Green eyes lingered on his, shadows making them appear darker, but transient. “Do you think we ever crossed paths when we were kids?”

It was a question he mulled over a shameful number of times. “Nah, not possible.”

“How can you be so sure?”

His breath caught in his throat, aching to reach across the desk, to touch the talented fingers drumming on the surface. “I just know.”

“How?” Ian whispered.

“I’d remember.”

\----------

The drive home was lengthy, grid locked rush hour traffic keeping them in a steady crawl. The streetlamp seemed to last ten times as long on red as it did on green. Mandy chirped on about her day at work in the passenger seat, waving her hands like an Italian baker. Mickey tried to focus, but all he could think about was that smile. It was endearing and lopsided, adorned with freckles so beautiful that he wanted to snap a photo to keep in his reference books for future projects. He scoured through his childhood memories, desperate to uncover one of them as kids.

“Earth to Assface,” Mandy said with a poke to his shoulder. “You’re not even listening to me!”

“Fuck—sorry. Long day. Tell me again, you got my full attention.”

“No sense wasting my charisma on you twice.”

Mickey scoffed. “Wanna grab milkshakes, Miss Melodrama?”

“Fine, but you’re buying.” She pouted, slumped in her seat, feigning maltreatment.

He ruffled her hair until a smile broke her façade. Mandy was the furthest thing from high maintenance, and while she enjoyed wringing him out to dry, she never meant it. Still, it bothered him to be anything but attentive.

“I think I have a crush on a student,” he confessed, cringing at her pitchy squeak.

“You _what_? Mick—”

“I know.”

“Code of ethics. Protocol.”

“ _I know_.”

“Position of power, moral corruption, lawsuits,” she continued, gawking in his peripheral.

“I fuckin’ know, Mands. He’s not a kid, though. I think he’s a couple years younger at most.”

She turned in her seat, wide eyed. “How long?”

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, begging the traffic ahead to get a move on so he could throw himself out on the freeway.

“Like—a few weeks.”

“Weeks?” Mandy squawked, laughing humorlessly. “Mickey—have a cold shower. That’s insane. You can’t risk your career for some piece of ass.”

“Who’s throwing their career away? It’s a crush. I’ll get over it.”

They drove in silence, her nervous tendencies distracting him from the road. He fidgeted under pressure, but Mandy had the monopoly on restless squirming. She twisted her hair so tight he was waiting for the thick locks to fall out all over his leather seats.

“Is he nice?”

Mickey barked out a guttural laugh. “What difference does it make?”

“He must be nice if he’s got you wound up like this.”

He pressed a wrist to his temple, pulling into their favourite fast food drive thru. “Forget I said anything, okay? It’s stupid.”

Mandy placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, before releasing a shakedown of wisdom. “It isn’t stupid, Mickey. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that, I’m sorry. You’ve worked so hard, I just worry, y’know? But its been so long since you—dated anyone. It’s lonely, and I get that. I want you to be happy.”

“I am.”

She unfastened her seatbelt, crawling across his lap, to shout into the speaker, “Two large extra thick milkshakes, please— _strawberry_.”

He was more than capable to place the order, but it was another quirk she embarked on any time they got takeout. He groaned about it without fail, and like the pain in the ass she was, it only fueled the fire.

“I can handle ordering two shakes, Mandy.”

“You always forget the extra thick part.”

“Because there’s only one kind, dumbass.”

“Nuh-uh,” she retorted, waggling her forefinger. “ _That_ is why you don’t get to do the talking.”

\----------

He managed only two sips before he let his drink melt into strawberry soup. Thoughts of Ian lifted his insides into the clouds, the reality of their situation plunging him back down again, stripping him of his appetite. Mandy napped on the couch, snoring like a hippopotamus, and he used the occasion to sneak off to his room to do some research.

What he found wasn’t conducive to how the redhead made him feel. Never had he allowed himself to look at a student as a potential partner. It riddled him with shame. The first guy he ever dated complained because he took things too slow. It wasn’t like him to catch feelings within weeks of meeting somebody. That was the garbage they sold hopeless romantics to keep them invested in regurgitated Hollywood love stories. It wasn’t how the actual world worked. So, why, when Ian sent him a late night email, did his heart flutter like he just won the lottery?

_**Mickey,** _

_**It’s gorgeous out tonight. I’m trying to figure out how to attach a video, I hope the clip comes through. It’s a crappy angle, I had to prop my phone up on a milk crate.** _

_**Hope you like The Rolling Stones.** _

_**This song made me think of you.** _

_**Ian.** _

He told himself he wouldn’t click the link, going as far as leaving the room to find a distraction, only to come careening back to his computer. It was harmless. A video of a student playing guitar in public did not differ from passing him in the street and watching him with the rest of the crowd. Only he’d never do that because it was against decorum and he was a horrid, sinful man.

“Fuck,” he mumbled to himself, burying his face in his hands.

Ian played the guitar like it was his last moment on earth and he needed to share a message with the world. It was mesmerizing. His voice was gravelly, and a little off tune, but it added to his performance. It caught him between wanting to delete it and put it on Spotify to listen on repeat. The camera angle left much to the imagination, but he could see a swarm of spectators swaying along, grins splitting their faces. He wasn’t the only one who found him impossible to ignore.

_**Gallagher,** _

_**Love The Stones. Got your video, looks like you rocked the cash right out of their wallets.** _

Mickey tilted his head back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. It made him sound like a middle aged soccer dad. He jabbed the backspace key, forming another attempt.

_**Gallagher,** _

_**You look so happy. Send me your videos anytime.** _

_**Do you have a favourite band?** _

Fuck. Too cheesy, and it would only encourage the redhead to respond, which wasn’t in their best interest. He typed a final reply, daggers in his chest as he wrote it.

_**Ian,** _

_**We need to keep our emails work/school related.** _

_**See you tomorrow,** _

_**Mickey.** _

The cursor sat over the send button for an excessive amount of time before he clicked it. It made him nauseous, delivering something so clerical. He wanted to indulge in his curiosity. There were so many questions that needed answers. What made him leave the Southside when he did? Where was his family? Did he like sugar in his coffee, or was he a glutton like Mandy, who poured half a carton of cream in every cup?

Him not having those answers might be exactly why he shouldn’t be so enamored. Lust was a fickle thing, and if he could get past the initial stage, it would be smooth sailing from there.

Until then, a cold shower.

\----------

Mickey got to work early, occupying his time with preparations. Ian wasn’t waiting for him in the hallway, and he tried to forget the way it stung. He taped construction paper over the tabletops, setting each station up with buckets, pieces of burlap, and medical grade plaster bandages. Life casting was a messy activity, but he hadn’t met a class who didn’t consider it the best part of the course, chaotic as it may be.

Of all the days he requested help from his TA’s, life cast day was the most important. Alginate set quickly, and he had to move slower with the students, as they adjusted to an experience they’d likely never had before. More hands allowed him to accommodate their comfort, without wasting expensive product, and it helped get them all done before their time was up for the day.

He took a step back, admiring his setup.

“Hey Mickey,” Ian murmured, leaning against the door jamb. “You’re here early.”

His breathing picked up with a simple glance. “Hey. Yeah—just trying to get a head start on the chaos.”

“Everyone says this is a blast. I’m stoked to see it all go down.”

Mickey wiped his palms on his jeans, moving to shuffle papers. He wished the redhead wasn’t catching on to his aimlessness, but his deliberate movements made it clear.

“Why don’t you go grab some breakfast before we start?” Mickey suggested, avoiding eye contact.

“You want me to leave?”

“I want you to eat something, so you’re not starving all day.”

Ian shuffled around the desk. He rested his chin against folded arms, and it reminded him of a homesick puppy. There was a droop in his eyes, magnified by his sullenness. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Mickey picked at the dry skin around his nails, hesitant to press for more. He shouldn’t care about Ian’s sleep patterns. “You okay?”

“Embarrassed, I guess,” he admitted. “I understand the boundary thing. Can’t be friends with your students, right?”

“Sorry, man. I think you’re great, it’s just against the rules to fraternize.”

Ian straightened out a row of bandages on his desk, taking a sharp breath. Mickey rolled his shoulders to keep from making a grave mistake.

“Would you—if you weren’t my teacher?” Ian asked, scratching his nose.

“Would I what?”

“Be my friend.”

He wanted to pull the redhead into a hug, the sadness etched on his face was too much. “Yeah, man. It’s fucking crazy, but I thought about it all night. I don’t even know you, but it feels like I’ve been—waiting or something.”

“Did you like my video?”

“A lot.”

Ian smiled, knocking his knuckle against the desk before standing up to leave. “I wish I met you sooner.”

\----------

It worried Mickey that the redhead wasn’t coming back. It was two minutes before they meant class to start, and his seat was empty. Rachel was busy pulling out the tool carts, the last of his students settling in with bright expressions, ready to learn. He had to steel himself through the day if Ian bailed, though he had no clue where to draw the strength from. If he could reverse time and meet Ian while they were both on the Southside, he would sacrifice everything to do it. Maybe it would have been a catastrophic failure, but if someone had the power to make the edges of everything blurry, it had to be worth a try.

“Ready, boss?” Rachel asked, pulling open a tub of alginate.

“Gimme five—gotta hit the can. If you can get them set up, that’d be outstanding. There’s a fresh box of bald caps by the window.

Pushing open the bathroom door, he halted at the sight of the redhead. He was curled up beside the sink, head burrowed in his knees, guitar tilted against the chipped tile wall below him.

“There you are. You coming back?”

Ian sniffed, looking up through damp lashes. “Just need a minute.”

“ _Fuck_. Please don’t be sad, man.”

“I’m not.”

Mickey waved his hand in front of the paper towel sensor, tearing off a long piece and handing it to the puffy eyed redhead. “You cuttin’ onions in here, then?”

“Shut up,” he huffed, disguising his smile with the piece of crumpled paper towel. “Your eyes are stupid.”

Mickey bit back his amusement. “Funny coming from a guy with such ridiculous hair. I’m surprised they’re not using you to flag down airplanes on the runway.”

“My hair is sexy as fuck.”

“It makes me want to invest in a pair of polarized sunglasses.”

Ian smirked. “Do you always bully gingers?”

“Only on days that end in ‘Y’ and only because they deserve it.”

When Ian laughed, it was like the sun exploded in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to be the reason someone smiled in a long time. Mandy was the only person he had ever gone to the ends of the earth and back to cheer up. Teasing worked on her too. He figured the two of them would hit it off as soon as they met.

“I think we have two choices here,” Ian stated, tossing the soggy ball of paper towel in the trash. “I quit school, and take up a life in the circus, or you promise to have a beer with me when I graduate. We won’t be breaking any rules, and in the meantime, I can sneak apple fritters onto your desk.”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“I guess I could join the circus—”

“Alright, okay? Fine.”

“Fine—I should join the circus, or fine—you’ll celebrate with me when I graduate and maybe let me get to know you better?”

Mickey couldn’t believe the audacity. “I’ll take your stupid ass out for a beer, but for the next few weeks you’re my student, and nothing more, okay?”

Ian beamed. “Deal.”

The giant ginger was going to have him tossing his entire life into the wind in no time flat, he just knew it. Something told him it would be more than worth the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support so far. My brain is bursting with ideas for this one, I hope you all enjoy.   
> Ian plays "Wild Horses" by The Rolling Stones in the video he sends to Mickey.


	4. Your Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian tries to resist his instructor. Resistance is futile.

Ian was thoroughly fine with being Mickey’s student. Squeezing a mountain of shampoo into his palm, he nodded to himself that three weeks was easy as pie. Droves of foam dripped from his scalp to his shoulders, slipping into his ears and crackling as the bubbles popped. He could have showered eight times with the amount of soap on his body, but he had it under control. Mickey, however—well, Ian felt much worse for him. He already had that look in his eye and judging by how often the instructor attempted to touch him, he was too far gone to resist.

A quick glance at his manhood told a different story. Ian shrugged, polishing his abdomen with a loofah, deciding that his unrelenting erection had no relation to those aggressive finger tattoos in the slightest. Those delicious, calloused, powerful hands did not roam through his mind at every waking hour, no matter how hard he tried to supplant the thoughts. It was going to be like a stroll in the rain with a pair of rubber boots and an umbrella. Effortless. Mickey wasn’t the turbine of his impulses. Plenty of people had hypnotic eyes and hair that settled in such a tantalizing way across their foreheads they should outlaw it.

His heart fluttered as he turned up the dial, heat cascading over his skin. In all his silent ramblings about how little he needed Mickey, his body begged to differ. As he tilted his head back, allowing his fingers to wander, he pictured for just a moment that they belonged to his instructor. A gentle skim over his nipples, a light scratch across his navel, a tug at the orange hair just above his cock. He wondered if Mickey liked to take his time, gliding his tongue along the ridges of his muscles and exploring tender spaces with his mouth, or if he preferred to tear the buttons off his clothes to reach his destination. 

Bracing himself against the shower wall with an outstretched arm, he let his imagination answer all his queries, a firm hand tugging at his pulsing shaft with fervor. Visuals blurred together behind his eyelids, Mickey losing control and pulling him in for a greedy kiss, dropping to his knees to swallow him down with moans that quivered like hungry growls. His instincts never led him astray, and they told him Mickey liked it hard. Rough. Ian whimpered, just picturing what his brawny back would look like, glistening in sweat. His instructor was a bottom, no doubt in his mind.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian wheezed, his orgasm spilling into the drain in bursts, until his scrotum became so tight it was almost agonizing. “I’m screwed.”

\----------

He waved at the familiar faces of staff on campus, admiring their fortitude in pursuing festive interior design. The building transformed over night, twinkling trees and dangling ornaments of purple and gold. It was barely November, but the décor was an effective draw for potential students, so the administration left no frilly stones unturned. He was a sucker for the holidays, so it was a welcomed surprise.

“Whaddya think?” Charlotte asked, wiping the dampness from her face with the back of her arm. “Too glitzy?”

Ian opened his mouth to answer, but a rowdy shoulder knocking into his arm shook him from his train of thought.

“What’re you asking him for?” Mickey snorted. “He’s too tall to see anything below ten feet.”

The instructor continued on to the elevator without a second glance, sending Ian a discreet wink before the stainless steel doors rumbled shut. He had to check his pulse before turning back to Charlotte, brain short circuiting like he’d just had an unexpected visit from Saint Nicholas himself.

“Don’t mind him,” Charlotte giggled. “He’s as Grinch as they come, always teasing us for taking the adornments out too soon.”

“I think it looks great, I like the theme you’ve got going,” Ian offered, trying not to stare at the elevator like it had just robbed him of his reason for breathing.

“Thanks! Purple is just the loveliest colour. Oh—how is prosthetics treating you? Good on you for standing up to Mickey. You impressed all of us in the office. That man never tips his hand.”

The mention of his instructor’s name was enough to sizzle the surface of his skin. “I like it, it’s better than I imagined. I’m worried about my final project though.”

Charlotte nodded. “That’s normal, everyone gets jitters at the end. You’ve done so well on all your other tests—I know you’ll knock this one out of the park. Besides, with Mickey watching your back, you’re set. He’s tough, and he’ll ride you hard, but the result is always magnificent.”

Ian stumbled backward, tripping on himself as he tried to put some distance between them before his secrets spilled out. “I should get going, don’t wanna be late.”

She peeked at her wristwatch, but before she could remind him how early it was, a student piped up about the glamourous atmosphere, giving him enough time to slip away. He filled his lungs with deep inhales of Mickey’s lingering scent, on route to the second floor.

\----------

The classroom door was ajar, which was never the case unless Mickey intended for him to come in. When he ambled his way through, he was disappointed to find the room empty. He leaned out the door, scanning the hallway for any disgruntled teachers from the Southside. He must have gone out for a cigarette. Ian considered joining the man, but came upon a sea of curiosity. Everything in the classroom either belonged to Mickey, or he handpicked it. It felt personal, a space that he spent most of his time.

A sweater hung on a hook behind his desk, covered in plaster and dust. Ian turned the zipper over in his fingers, moving his hands inside to the warm fleece lining. He wished they wore the same size, so he could slip the jacket on and experience what it was like to have that smell wrapped around his body.

“Got a sweater fetish, Gallagher?” Mickey asked, leaning against the doorframe with one brow cocked like he’d just landed a homicide case.

“I was um—”

“You were what?” he murmured, tongue lingering at the top of his mouth on the last consonant.

Ian jerked his hand back when he realized it was still nestled deep in Mickey’s sweater, reaching his offending appendage to his guitar strap. “I don’t know what to say.”

Mickey focused on him, eyes looking straight through his soul, unblinking. Ian took a few steps back, bracing himself on the back of a chair. It prepared him for a hearty toss out of the room, guns over guitar, buns over briefcase, but the man didn’t move. He just watched as Ian’s body combusted from the inside out.

“Say something,” Ian fretted, moving his guitar in front, so he had something to clutch.

The instructor moved from the doorway, slow steps toward Ian, never shifting his gaze. He had to remind himself to swallow, the beating in his chest gaining tremendous speed. Mickey stopped when all that stood between them was his beloved instrument. He flinched when Mickey reached his hand up, but only until the pad of his thumb dragged across Ian’s bottom lip, a quiet groan from his instructor arousing his senses.

“Gallagher?” Mickey whispered, causing him to swell with enough vitality to poke a hole through the back of his guitar.

“Yeah?”

“Class hasn’t started yet. Get your ass out.”

Mickey didn’t back away, forcing Ian to move around him, a grin of pure torture painted on his face.

“I hate you,” Ian griped, experiencing everything on the wheel of emotions except loathing for the man.

“Mm.”

“You did that on purpose.”

Mickey chuckled, snatching his sweater from the hanger, and slipping it on like it was just an ordinary Tuesday and he was getting ready to work. “Dunno what you’re talking about, man.”

“You think I don’t know, but I know,” Ian said, regaining his composure. “I’m onto you, Milkovich.”

“I like the sounds of that.”

“Yeah, I bet you do!” he tittered, grabbing a fistful of Mickey’s sweater, and yanking him close. “Tick-Tock, Mick. I won’t be your student forever.”

\----------

If it was workable to masturbate into prosperity, Ian was sure he’d reached Fortune 500. Hair matted from sweat and frustration, he reflected on how he sat through a full day of prosthetics and didn’t retain a single lesson. Aside from the fact that Mickey was the devil, sent to earth to punish him in every unfathomable way. It took all the self control Ian could muster, to keep from throwing the man on his desk, and eating his ass in front of every nattering person in the room.

The instructor examined the room as he spoke, paying significant attention to Ian without increasing the interest of his peers. There was no obvious stare, but when their eyes connected, Mickey was speaking chemistry into existence that made him squirm in his seat like they stained it in olive oil and sexual yearning. His entire bus ride home, all his reflections of the day became ruminations of the beddable teacher.

One of his roommates, the most belligerent of them all, was busy cramming his face with a bowl of cereal when Ian came through the door on cloud nine. He didn’t understand why the man disliked him so much, but if he had to guess, it would be his optimistic attitude contrasting the other man’s general antipathy for mundane life. He tucked his shoes into the spot forced upon him, as if to put them anywhere else was to wish death upon the colony. His miserable roomie decided it was time to nag about Ian’s habitual music playing past 8pm. Hours observing the way Mickey used titillating hand gestures to paint imagery during his lessons had him floating too high to care.

He tried learning a new song to keep himself occupied when his laptop chimed, piquing his interest.

_**Gallagher,** _

_**How serious were you about joining the circus?** _

_**Mickey.** _

He coiled over in a fit of laughter and victory. Mickey was just as fucked as he was. He considered making his instructor wait for a response, but his body was humming.

_**Mickey,** _

_**That bad, huh?** _

_**Can’t relate.** _

_**Ian.** _

He couldn’t succumb to the fate of being a needy loser a minute longer, so he got started packing his equipment for his gig of the week. When his notification rang out again, he almost fell on his face trying to reach the keyboard.

_**Gallagher,** _

_**Too bad. Here I was thinking we might have to make an exception, but now that I know you’re handling it so well, I can put my mind to rest.** _

_**Mickey.** _

Crap. A backfire, but not an unfixable one. He scrambled into his dingy ensuite bathroom, stripping himself naked. Dick pics were in poor taste until they had established the exchange as welcome in their relationship, but he figured Mickey might appreciate some images of the racy variety. He angled his phone so that his body was visible, his crotch covered with the neck of his guitar. A quick upload to his laptop, and it would all be history.

_**Mickey,** _

_**Here’s a little something for your mind.** _

_**Ian.** _

Time was not on his side, and he couldn’t afford to lose his gig, so he sent another hopeful email, with an address to the spot where he would perform all night. He didn’t catch a response before he had to rush out the door, but Ian was a convincing photographer.

\----------

The restaurant was upscale. Panoramic view at over five hundred feet, windows angled for optimal viewing of the sparkling city below, with a menu he’d have to work half a year to afford without cringing. The servers reminded him of a hive of bees, never in one place longer than they needed to be. He hadn’t known how fancy it was until his first gig, but he learned to dress the part when the patrons enjoyed his music enough that the manager hired him again.

He’d become accustomed to being hit on, more so in finer establishments. Confusion always struck him when a filthy rich suit approached him, eager to take him home with little regard to the onlookers, or their own wives. Sure, he cleaned up well, but it was obvious his standard of living wasn’t the same. He turned the advances down most of the time, but when he had an itch to scratch, he let himself pander to his more basic instincts. There had never been a solid reason not to, and every once in a while, he’d get to enjoy how the other half lived.

There were bedroom eyes all around the room, but the only pair he cared to see were not yet glimmering in the swanky haunt. Anticipation festered in his belly, but he wouldn’t hold it against Mickey if he didn’t show up. To hold out until it protected his career seemed logical, and despite what the instructor might think, Ian cared a great deal about that.

“You’re back—didn’t think I’d see you again,” a voice spoke from behind, one he didn’t recognize.

When he spun around, he still couldn’t quite place the face, though attractive enough he should. “Uh—hey. How’ve you been?”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he chuckled, tipping his head back to finish his drink. “I have a forgettable face, I get it. You—well, yours is a mug I’ve thought about for months.”

Remnants of brandy hung on the man’s breath, but he was sturdy on his feet, so Ian trusted his ability to handle whatever came his way. “Sorry, man. Lots of faces in my line of work, it’s hard to keep track.”

The man nodded, running his hand over Ian’s fingers, still splayed on his guitar. “Penthouse suite. Bottomless room service—you ordered pulled pork poutine and spilled half of it on the bed. I would have done unspeakable things to watch you eat them off the sheets, but you weren’t as freaky as I expected.”

“Can’t say it rings a bell, sorry,” Ian said, a lie he hoped would annoy the other man enough to make him leave.

“Why don’t we get out of here after your done, gimme a chance to jog your memory. It’s Charles, by the way.”

“Look, I’m real flattered, but I’m working.”

“So work. I’ll crush a few more drinks and we’ll grab an Uber. I don’t mind locking down another penthouse for the right guy.”

Ian gripped the microphone stand, glancing over the man’s shoulder. “No thanks. I’m not interested, okay?”

Charles shook his head. “You playing hard to get?”

“No.”

“You kinda are though, right?” he drawled, groping Ian’s crotch.

“Eh—you got a death wish?” Mickey barked, shoving his body between Ian and the grabby prick. “Feel like hobbling outta here on stumps, asshole?”

Cutlery clanked against porcelain as spectators darted their glances to the commotion. Sweat dripped down Ian’s spine, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the persistent creep, or the man a millisecond away from throwing hands, wearing a black blazer, and the best fitting pair of jeans a mere mortal could ever don.

“You the boyfriend?” Charles smirked, straightening out his tie.

“I’m the dude whose gonna send you home with a microphone in your ass if you don’t back the fuck up.”

Management, being alerted to the disturbance, craned their necks to gauge the threat.

“Come on, buddy. If we can’t bang other dudes, we’re just as boring as straight people.”

The punch came so fast, Ian hadn’t even registered the blow before the man hit the ground. Mickey flexed his hand, a cut on his knuckles dripping down his fingers.

“Mick—”

Security guards jogged to the scene, assessing the man on the ground. “What happened here?”

Ian tried to speak up, but Mickey beat him to the punch, pun intended. “Fucker put his hands on my husband’s dick, wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“That true?” a guard asked Ian.

“Y-yeah.”

Society didn’t care what happened to a couple kids from the Southside, they would always view the men as guilty until proven innocent in an altercation. Ian turned to pack up his things, prepared for a haul out, when the guards apologized to him and Mickey, dragging the dirtbag out of the restaurant. He could only blink as he watched them shoulder the incapacitated man through the entrance. Patrons clapped in unison, causing Mickey to twist his face up in bewilderment.

“The fuck?”

“You’re a hero,” Ian teased, lifting Mickey’s injured hand to his mouth and kissing his palm. “My very own Spiderman.”

“Fuck right off—”

A burly manager tapped Mickey on his shoulder. “We’d like to offer you and your husband meals and drinks on the house. We don’t condone that behavior here—and Ian, we’re sorry you had to suffer that treatment under our roof. If there’s anything you need, say the word.”

Entombed in his throat, Ian’s words were not useful, still acclimating to being shown such a courtesy. He could only nod in acknowledgement. Mickey had other plans.

“There needs to be better compensation for Ian than free food, wouldn’t you say, Jeeves? I’ve never heard of sexual assault being healed with beef wellington.”

The manager wrung his hands. “What did you have in mind?”

\----------

“Five thousand?” Ian croaked, staring at the check in his hands. “Dollars. Five thousand dollars.”

“Yup,” Mickey chortled, smoke billowing from his nose. “Shoulda pushed for more.”

“More? Mickey—this is five thousand dollars.”

“Well, it’s a piece of paper. Better cash it before they cancel the fuckin’ thing.”

They stood in the cool night air, Ian gawking at the most money he’d ever held in his hands, a flicker of a nearby lamp reminding him of home. “Where do I take it?”

“A bank—”

“Just my regular bank? Do I have to say anything?”

“You can tell ’em someone grabbed your junk, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Ian scoffed, giving his chest a playful push. The act elicited a laugh so pure, Ian wanted to check his pulse to make sure he was still breathing. Mickey clenched his teeth around his cigarette, letting it dangle from his lips as he reached up to cup Ian’s face. “You good, Gallagher?” 

“I’m fine—I can’t believe you convinced them to pay out like this. Thank you.”

Mickey took a step back, one long pull of his smoke before tossing it into the gutter. “Nobody puts their hands on you like that and gets away with it.”

“I hooked up with that asshole.”

“Don’t matter. You said no, that’s all you needed to do. That geriatric viagroid deserved worse than what he got.”

There was a beat of silence, both men collecting themselves. Ian had met no one outside of his older brother, who would go to bat for him, and nobody in his years as an adult. Mickey didn’t have a full understanding of the circumstances, yet he risked his freedom. “They could’ve called the cops.”

“It’d still be worth it.”

Ian swallowed, tugging the cuffs of Mickey’s blazer. “I can’t get you out of my head.”

“Yeah?”

“Which is good, since you’re my husband.”

Mickey sniffed, staring at the ground. “Alright—don’t get your tux out.”

“Since I’m not _just_ your student anymore, can we grab that beer now?”

“You’re still my student.”

“Please.”

The instructor let out a defeated sigh, pulling out his phone to call a cab. “One beer, and you owe me a song. I didn’t get to see you play.”

\----------

In Ian’s neck of the woods, there was an open field across the street from a liquor store where he found solace on the weekends. It looked to be a once well-liked soccer field, but the affixed elementary school wasn’t functional anymore, windows boarded up and embellished in spray paint. The men shared a six pack, sprawling out in the damp grass, looking up at the sky and reminiscing on their childhood. Mickey didn’t talk much about his own, but asked Ian every question under the sun. He’d never been happier to share, as embarrassing as some of it was.

He confessed to Frank being a nightmare, leaving Fiona to care for him and all his siblings. How he wanted to join the army, but needed to help run the house, taking up live music to pad the squirrel fund. Mickey rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his wrist, listening to every word like he might one day write about it.

“What about your mom?”

Ian pulled at individual blades of grass, a pang in his chest. “She died. Overdose. I was fifteen when it happened, paramedics found her in a bathroom stall somewhere.”

“That’s fuckin’ horrible. I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “Thanks. We weren’t very close, but she would come around sometimes. She loved watching me play piano. I’m glad I got to do that with her.”

They listened to cars drive by, Mickey joining him in tearing out patches of grass.

“What about your parents?”

“Uh—dad got thrown in the can when I was a sophomore. Mandy and I got picked up by a foster family. We lucked out and got adopted. Spent a little time on the Northside before hauling ass out here.”

“What did he do?”

Mickey sat up to grab another beer, twisting off the cap and balancing it on Ian’s head. “How about you play me a song, Gallagher? Ain’t that how you lured me out here in the first place?”

Ian moved to grab another beer of his own, taking a swig before setting himself up in the grass cross legged. His guitar rested in his lap, the contours fitting him like a glove. He shivered at the gaze Mickey had on his bicep, like there was more than music on his mind, but he was too nervous to mention it. “Didn’t get my picture?”

“Oh, I got it.”

Heat spilled from his scalp and down his cheeks. Mickey’s gaze made his tongue go numb, and everything surrounding it. “What do you wanna hear?”

“The first song that comes to your head.”

Ian dragged his thumb across the strings. “Anything for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) They need to kiss ASAP.  
> B) I love them  
> C) Ian plays Mickey "Your Song" by Elton John 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Have an amazing weekend.


	5. Meddling Mandy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sibling moments and a dip into Mickey's personal life.

To see Mickey's soul was to put a brush in his hand and allow him the freedom of expression. He earned his accolades with ambition, and although he struggled to admit his talent to himself, it was apparent within his industry. It was daunting at first, working the sphere of makeup artistry as a retired Southside thug, but he soon discovered it was a welcoming community to artists across the board, despite their background. Nobody looked down on him, like he expected them to. When he walked the red carpet with his team, others recognized them as valued members of production. He built an impressive portfolio with his own two hands, and many late nights. His work allowed his confidence to flicker through, something he also had to establish piece by piece. 

In the relationship pool, he deemed himself inexperienced, and with that came hesitance to pursue them. There had only been one significant partner in his past outside his first relationship as a kid, among a sea of faces he didn’t care a great deal about beyond a sexual transaction. He stumbled into it two years after he and Mandy moved to Los Angeles, and while the initial attraction wasn’t worth writing home about, Mickey enjoyed his company at first. They met through colleagues and dated for ten months; spending many of them with Mickey trying to dodge commitment. Career related projects kept him occupied and maintaining a healthy path took priority.

It didn’t take long for him to feel suffocated by obligation, and even less time for Mandy to protest the union. It ranged from easy going and fun, to ball and chain in a snap. He wasn’t ready to share a bed, much less a vow of devotion. Logan wanted what Mickey wasn’t ready to give, including a seat at his parents’ table.

Mandy blamed it on their connection being out of whack. They weren’t the right fit, and she wasn’t wrong. It was foreign for the Milkovich siblings, and although it was Mickey’s relationship, it meant something to him to have his sister’s approval. Her instincts were seldom off the mark. He trusted her opinion. Opposites attract, but he and Logan lived on separate planets, something he couldn’t deny as time dragged on. Mandy’s disdain for the new boyfriend extended far beyond her fear of losing Mickey.

The man was insecure, and developed overwhelming demands for his time, even if he was neck deep in film duties, or projects. Logan was sneaky in how he manipulated their boundaries. He moved his things into their apartment with every visit, not enough to cause immediate alarm, but enough that they noticed a strange box of cereal, or an extra load of laundry where there shouldn’t be one. He would visit Mickey at work and gallivant around like the universe betrothed them and show up to events uninvited. Mickey tried to explain that it was too soon, but Logan would pitch a fit and saw away at his empathy until he gave in. Explosive arguments erupted between Logan and Mandy often until she began searching for a new apartment for herself.

Mickey hated that he fell into a toxic cycle, and as soon as he could muster the strength, he ended things. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was enough to make him gun shy with anyone who showed him interest afterward.

It wasn’t the same with Ian. Reservations still nagged at the corners of his mind, but his resistance to affection, and need for a gradual pace became swarmed with desires to do everything at once with the redhead. Their sexual chemistry was abundant, and he’d be a fraud to say that didn’t play a major role in his fascination with the man, but when he thought about curling up on the couch together watching old movies, the idea didn’t breed fear, but served him a dose of comfort. He worried that in some ways, he would be a Logan to Ian, desperate to blend their worlds together. He fretted that being infatuated so soon was a calamity waiting to happen.

It didn’t stop him from pining over their emails.

_**Mickey,** _

_**Thanks again for the other night. Sorry if it got weird, I think I’m just excited. If I get to be too much, tell me.** _

_**Ian.** _

Weird wasn’t how he’d describe their interactions, but exciting was closer to the mark. He related to the anxiety Ian was suffering because he’d taken a fine-tooth comb to their encounters more than once.

_**Ian,** _

_**We’re good, man. I had a nice time. What makes you think it was weird?** _

_**Mickey.** _

He put on a brave face, but inside he was spiralling. They grew up in anarchy and chaos, so to expect normalcy was out of the question, but laying together in a field all night had fallen on his short list of favourite memories. Besides, it had been a while since he got to swing his fist for a good cause.

_**Mickey,** _

_**Where do I start LOL?** _

_**Crying in the bathroom, pervy dudes from my past, your sweater. All signs point to crazy. I’m surprised you haven’t like, reported me or something. Promise I’m not a creep. I feel things kind of intense, and I can be impulsive. I’ll explain it all to you sometime, but yeah. Just wanted to apologize if I’m coming on too strong.** _

_**Ian.** _

An innocent chuckle built in his chest, and he couldn’t contain it. Ian spoke into existence the fears Mickey was struggling to bury, and the honesty was exquisite in its own right. The way he fumbled in the open was as raw as it was enticing. He would take candid over false perception any day of the week.

_**Ian,** _

_**Take this to your grave, but when Prince died, I cried in the same bathroom. I get it. I’m a cool dude, not being my friend earns some tears.** _

_**All jokes aside, man… you have done nothing wrong. Except sending pictures to my work email. You’re lucky they don’t monitor my shit. I might have to submit your corny ass to a fireman’s calendar or something out of spite. Stay weird, Gallagher. I like it.** _

_**Mickey.** _

Panic wasn’t the initial wave to wash over him after he clicked the link, but it was a close second. The administration had never demanded access to his accounts, but with his luck, he couldn’t afford to risk it. He’d never been so quick to download and delete a photo or hand out his personal email.

_**Mickey,** _

_**You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you? It got me your contact info though, so that’s a plus. You got a thing for firefighters? I don’t mean to toot my horn, but I look decent in a uniform. I learned a new song today. Wish you were here so I could play it for you.** _

_**P.S.** _

_**I like it when you call me Gallagher almost as much as I like the way you smell.** _

_**Ian.** _

Mickey had no doubts about the way a uniform fit that athletic body. The man was frolicsome and alien looking, but to say he was gorgeous was an understatement.

“Skip the damn song already,” Mandy groaned, digging one hand into her hip, the other clenched around the handle of their vacuum cleaner. “Jesus—your sudden hang-up on Elton John is making me retch. Can you pry yourself away from your precious computer so we can get this done?”

Mickey crossed his arms, untangling the rogue extension cord with his foot before she snagged it out of the wall in frustration. “Make sure you toss your cookies in the garbage can, I ain’t cleaning the apartment twice.”

“I’m serious—what’s with the music? First it was that awkward crap about horses, now your grinning like an idiot over glam rock? Did my brother make his way back to the mother-ship—was he abducted?”

“You wanna talk awkward? If I have to listen to you croon in the shower one more time to some bimbo squealing about her cheating boyfriend, I’m gonna shut off the water supply and make you bathe with the hobos at the gas station.”

His sarcasm only caused her suspicions to proliferate. Mandy threw a couch cushion across the room, knocking over a lamp when Mickey deflected the attack. He sucked his teeth at her, skirting the cotton filled weapon to pick up a cloth and wipe down the coffee table.

“You’re lovesick.”

“I’m sick of cleaning up after your stupid ass, is what I am.”

“Come on, Mick. I’ve lived with you all my life. I notice when you’re hooked on dick. Oh god—don’t tell me you’re hanging around that idiot again.”

His middle finger shot up between them, as he lumbered into the kitchen to take his irritation out on the stove top, circumnavigating her interrogation. He wouldn’t crawl back to Logan if he was the last man on earth and it parched Mickey for cock.

“Fine, don’t answer me. But if I find out first, there’s no telling what I’ll do,” she said, quirking her brow. “Remember your first boyfriend?”

“Mandy—”

“It’s the guy you’re crushing on in class, isn’t it?”

“Cut it out.”

“Cupid has nothing on me.”

“Stay out of it, okay?”

She snapped her fingers. “I’ll invite him to Thanksgiving.”

“You can’t invite someone you don’t know—good luck figuring it out.”

“Oh, I don’t need luck, Mikhailo. I’ll sit in on your next lesson. Gimme two minutes and I’ll have the guy pegged.”

Mickey scoffed, worried his eyes would detach from his skull if he rolled them any harder. “You’re not sitting in on a damn thing—and if you stick your nose too deep, I’ll tell our dads you banged that douchebag from the poultry processing plant.”

They glared at each other for a few beats, both too stubborn to budge. There were three things Mandy valued most in her life. Mickey, her adoptive fathers, and mint chip ice cream. He knew just how to push her buttons, and how to use those idiosyncrasies to his advantage.

“What’s his name?” Mandy prodded.

“John.”

She blinked at him, sliding an overflowing basket of dirty laundry toward him with her foot. “John what?”

“Jacob,” Mickey said, poker faced.

“That sounds made up—what’s his actual name?”

“John Jacob,” Mickey stated, leaning down to grab the laundry basket, “Jingleheimer Schmidt.”

Mandy lunged forward, slapping the bottom of the basket with both hands, sending dirty laundry soaring through the air. Mickey barked out a throaty laugh, dodging a pair of smelly socks as she pelted him with every piece of clothing she could reach.

“You’re such a shit head,” she complained, knocking him off balance with a rocketing pair of jeans. “I’m gonna figure it out.”

“Nope,” Mickey chuckled. “Not a chance.”

She shrugged, helping him refill the basket. “It’s a lost cause, anyway.”

“Fuck you talkin’ about?”

“Well—I’m guessing since he’s a makeup artist and all, he’s a bottom, and vegan. Vegetarian at the very least.”

“Ian is neither one of those things but nice try,” Mickey blurted, smacking his palm to his forehead. “Fuck.”

“Gotcha, fucker. Now turn off your gay ass music so we can get this crap done. You owe me details.”

\----------

Mickey despised the laundry room. The machines were garbage, coins getting stuck in the slots, the dryers requiring three runs before doing a sufficient job of altering the clothes from their damp state. The shitheads who lived in their building were inconsiderate, often moving their loads of laundry onto the top of the machine, soaking wet, to get their own stuff done. Mandy almost killed a guy for touching her unmentionables a few months after they moved in, a permanent motivator to join his sister in the bedraggled room so he didn’t have to bail her out of the clink every time they had chores to do. It was a pain in the ass, but he never passed up an opportunity to sit with her on the rickety table to catch up on life.

“We need to move out of this shit hole, Mick.”

It was a frequent discussion. They could afford a much nicer place, but they both wrestled with the idea, and Mandy had done such a superb job transforming their apartment. It was easy to settle for less. There were still strings of doubt attached to them from back home, that told them they deserved to live only where the paint peeled from the walls. When he bought his car, he battled with it too, baffled that he’d ever own something with a push start, and heated seats.

“Yeah, about that time, huh?” he said, the washing machine clanging shut with a raucous. “Tired of hearing our neighbors go at it?”

“If we had a better view and consistent hot water, I wouldn’t complain.”

Mickey snorted, running his finger along a deep scratch in the wooden tabletop. “Are we being serious this time?”

“As a heart attack.”

“Okay. I’ll start looking then. You want a house or—”

“You still want to live with me?” Mandy asked with astonishment. “Figured, you’d be sick of me by now.”

“Oh, I’m just waiting for you to meet some rich asshole so I can pawn you off on the poor shmuck,” Mickey retorted, laughing when her eyebrows jumped to her hairline. “I told you, we’re in this together.”

“What about your boyfriend?”

“Don’t have one—and even if I did, it’d be a chilly day in hell before I let his ass move in. Logan scared me out of that one for good.”

She toyed with a tendril of hair, studying his face. “Logan was a warm mouth. It won’t be the same with every guy.”

He huffed out a breath, leaning back against the cold cement wall, the table creaking below them. “I guess. Way to make me sound like a total d-bag.”

“What’s he like?” Mandy asked with a gentle smile. “Ian.”

His mouth went dry the way it always did at the mention of his name. “Uh—I dunno. Funny.”

“Funny?”

“He makes me laugh or whatever.”

Mandy reached for his hand, stabilizing him. “You’re safe, Mick. I won't judge you unless he’s a piece of shit like the last one.”

Her ability to drop a wisecrack in a sentimental moment was something he wouldn’t replace for anything in the world. “What do you wanna know?”

“Everything. Is he a good kisser?” she grinned, crinkling her nose as their cheeks mirrored brilliant crimson, his face burning from scalp to chin.

“No idea. We haven’t made it that far yet. He’s um—handsome. Plays music for a living, gigs and stuff. Tall.”

“Tall, handsome, plays music, and you haven’t kissed him yet? Are you trying to torture yourself?” she teased, averting her eyes. “You’re scared.”

He chewed a patch of dry skin on his bottom lip. “Shitless. I mean, I want to—do that, almost did the other night. Don’t want it to end up like before, though. I thought I liked the last guy until he got attached and shit.”

Mandy tilted her head, eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Were you scared to kiss Logan?”

“Nah,” he shrugged, standing up on the wobbly table to disconnect the fire alarm, yanking the discoloured device from the wall. “Didn’t do a whole lotta that, anyway. Why?”

She lit a cigarette, taking a long pull before passing it to him. “I think love is like this, Mick.”

“Fuck off. I’ve known the guy for like five minutes.”

“So what?” she snapped, snatching the smoke from him. “Emotions aren’t a calculated thing, dumbass. Neither is the attraction. When you know, you know.”

\----------

Mandy inundated him with questions on their ride to work. She wanted to learn everything about the new guy who had stolen her brothers’ heart. Their interactions were still brand new, so he didn’t have all the answers, but it only slowed her down enough to think up the next question. She had become something of a professional eavesdropper over the years, and he wouldn’t put it past her to stand in the middle of the mall shouting Ian’s name. It was much simpler to oblige.

“Can I please sit in on your lesson today? I’m dying to meet him,” Mandy whined, holding up a mirror in one hand, applying mascara with the other. “Stop hitting every pothole, you dick.”

“If you woke up at a decent time, you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Do you want me to show up at work looking like Edward Scissorhands?”

He glanced away from the road long enough to snort at her plight. “How dare you throw shade on such a work of art! Blasphemy.”

She flipped him the bird, shuffling through her purse to grab her phone, getting mascara all over her hand. “I don’t know why I even have to put on my makeup anymore.”

“Time is money, bitch. Look at your hand,” Mickey blurted, laughing when she went for his gut with her messy fist. “Who the fuck’s calling you this early?”

“Pappy, what’s up?” Mandy asked, turning down the radio and clicking her phone into place on the dashboard. She put their conversation on speakerphone, giggling in Mickey’s direction.

“Mornin’ Mandabear! You guys heading to work right now?”

“Yeah—five minutes away. Where are you? It’s loud.”

“Dad asked me to take his truck for an oil change. Turns out it needed more than a quick tune up. I’m waiting for them to repair the stupid thing. Still can’t believe he bought this clunker.”

“You told him to find a hobby,” she beamed, getting back to her sad attempt at makeup application on the freeway.

“Right. I’m regretting that.”

Mickey piped up. “Whaddya got against classics?”

“My boy, _I’m_ a damn classic. If Dad put half the devotion into me he puts into this ostentatious vision, I’d be as shiny as a sequin turtleneck at the disco.”

The siblings shook their heads, laughing with their zany father, disgruntled shouting in the background coming from what they assumed to be the loudest mechanics shop in the Northern Hemisphere.

“I know you didn’t call me to tease Dad,” Mandy said, pumping the wand into the mascara bottle until Mickey had to hold himself back from tossing it out the window.

“Fun as that may be, you’re right. We wanted to check in and see how long you would both be staying with us. I set up a games room in the clubhouse—thought you’d need time to fight over it before you got here.”

It had been over a year since they’d been back to Northside Chicago. Mickey’s schedule had been tough to work around, but they were looking forward to a long overdue visit.

“Mandy can take it,” Mickey offered, pulling into the underground parkade of the mall. “My room still standing?”

“Haven’t changed a thing, son. Oh—do you have any plus ones we should know about? Dad is dying to brag about you boneheads to anyone who’ll listen,” he spoke without venom, his playful tone reminding them how lucky they got all those years ago.

“Dad might be in luck,” Mandy chimed, making a crude gesture. “Pull out an extra chair, okay?”

“You got it—love you both to the moon—”

“—and back,” they said in harmony.

“You guys getting too old for that one?” he asked, the affection in his voice like a warm hug.

“Never,” Mandy said, smiling at the screen.

When the call ended, and they pulled into their reserved parking spot, Mandy grabbed her coat from the backseat, Mickey sprinting toward the stairwell, fulfilling their morning tradition of racing each other to the main floor of the mall. They alternated who took the elevator and who got the short straw climbing the stairs. Mickey let her win as often as possible, but it was gratifying pretending to lose when it made her eyes light up, however speckled with poorly applied makeup they may be.

“Alright, Usain Bolt. No more Wheaties for you,” Mickey panted, his turn to take the stairs catching up with his fondness for cigarettes.

“Ha! You owe me lunch. Text me when you’re on break.”

Mickey nodded, holding his fist out for a bump. “You bet.”

“What happened to your hand?” Mandy asked, pulling on his arm to inspect the wound that was still sore, but scabbed over. “Jesus.”

“Ran into a doorknob.”

“You’re a freaking doorknob,” she huffed, scowling at his injury. “Did you put cream on it?”

“How about you go fix your face and let me worry about my hand?”

She jutted her chin, her nose in the air, skulking to the food court. Before he had the chance to disappear, she shouted over her shoulder.

“I’ll see you in class, brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Milkovich duo were adopted by two wonderful men. I look forward to expanding on that in future chapters. Thank you for reading. We'll see plenty of Gallavich in the next ones, if Mandy has anything to say about it.


	6. Strike Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy catches on quickly. Mickey has a decision to make.

Mandy attempted to strip her black hair with an awful box dye and a tub of powdered bleach the first night they lived in LA. Mickey got wasted off his ass from a bottle of rum and a case of beer, all fingers and thumbs in his pursuit to help her fix it. The chemicals stung their eyes, woozy from booze and fumes no praises to the poor ventilation in their residence, and it was in that moment that she decided to only trust professional hair stylists, the bill for the correction much less arduous than the devastation she’d done to her mane. She cut it to her shoulders, platinum blonde to disguise their old stomping grounds, and it took years to grow back to her preferred length. Mickey had two courses in hair during his education, enough to help her style it every morning until she figured it out for herself.

She got her period in the middle of the night once and realized she had no tampons. He traipsed to the pharmacy on foot, after one too many drinks to drive, to remedy her situation. Inside the bag contained her feminine hygiene products, Midol, and a heated water bottle to help with cramps. She didn’t have to ask. He grumbled about how ludicrous it was for a woman to have seventy aisles dedicated to menstrual products, and she could only imagine his encounter with the cashier, but he was her best friend, and there wasn’t an individual on the face of the earth she cared for more than him.

They took care of each other, and despite the bickering, she would never turn her back on him as long as she was alive. It took everything she had not to leave a bag of dog shit on Logan’s doorstep, lighting it on fire along with the porch and the ridiculous boat he left in his driveway, which never made it to the open water, just rotted in his presence along with everything else he owned. She hadn’t met him until Mickey had been screwing him for a couple months. Her first red flag. The second was his persistent need for validation. He was excruciating to be around. Ninety percent of what he said was pure bullshit, the rest laced with chicanery that Mickey was too busy to pick up on until it was too late.

It hurt to see Mickey pulled apart and treated like property. She promised herself she would never fall apathetic to one of his boyfriends again. If he didn’t pass her inspection, and he failed her evaluation, he wouldn’t have a place in Mickey’s life. She didn’t have unreasonable standards, but the man would need to be substantial. He also had to pass their father’s approval, and that was a can of worms surmountable to only the bravest fish.

“Long time no see!” Mandy greeted, a familiar redhead sauntering into the store. “Haven’t seen your freckles in here for weeks.”

He filled a basket with every B vitamin they stocked, shooting her a sheepish glance. “Yeah—sorry about that. I’ve had a lot going on. How’ve you been, Mandy?”

Clayton was the most interesting person she’d met, and while they weren’t close, he was open about his battle with mental health. Every couple of months he would drop enough vitamins on the counter to make anyone curious, sharing his diagnosis with her after she teased him for being a health nut.

“Not bad—trying to find a new place to live in this expensive ass city. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they charged per tenant and bed bug.” 

He grinned, guitar slung across his back, squatting down to read the label on a container of protein powder. “Oh man, I get you. Roommates are a necessary evil. I’m one step away from pitching a tent in the field by my place and living outside with the birds. I keep expecting my guitar to go missing.”

Something seemed different with Clayton. It wasn’t his mood dipping either. He dodged her eye contact like a red rubber ball in gym class. “Roommates being jerks?”

“That’s their M.O. right? It’s okay, though. I keep to myself. How’s work been?”

She watched his cheeks transform into freckled beets when their eyes connected. It wasn’t because she was the belle of the ball either, her gaydar was strong. “Same old. Is Mickey dropping a big load on you?”

“Wh-what?” Clayton’s neck shifted in her direction so fast she thought he might have snapped it.

“My asshole brother,” she continued, pouring a basket of berries into the blender. “If the workload is ridiculous, don’t be afraid to let him know. He gets tunnel vision sometimes, doesn’t always know when to put a project down.”

He let out a jumpy chuckle, dumping his order onto the counter between them. “Nah, he’s perfect—his class. His class is perfect.”

She scanned his items one by one, trying to place the nervous energy. It wasn’t unusual for Mickey’s students to squirm under the pressure. He was a hard ass and expected his students to put their best foot forward, but what the redhead effused wasn’t dread. He gripped the strap of his guitar like it tethered him to the bridge he was about to fall from. But his fear didn’t match what she’d grown accustomed to seeing.

“I’ve never heard you play.”

“My guitar?”

“Yeah—you’re always carrying it around with you. I’m thinking it’s some hipster fashion accessory.”

Clayton’s shoulders relaxed, a breathy laugh escaping through parted lips. He was handsome, she’d give him that. Come to think of it, he was tall, too. “You take me for a poser, huh?”

Her cheeks stung, matching his smile. “Maybe. You’ve got the whole damaged boy looking for a girl who gets him vibe.”

A laugh belted from his diaphragm. “Damn, that’s not what I’m going for at all.”

She took his statement as confirmation. They took beautiful men in Los Angeles, and married them off, made them narcissistic, or they were gay. There was no in between. It was a relief, because Ian gave her cavities he was such a treat, and she’d ruin that for him if they were ever in a relationship.

“No? Looks to me like you’re the King of the league. MVP if you will.”

His brow quirked, stepping back to scan the store for any stragglers. They were alone. He shifted the instrument until it hung across his stomach. “What’s your favourite song, brat?”

“What can you play?”

“Anything, as long as I know what it sounds like.”

“Cocky little shit—okay. You put me on the spot here,” she said, her favourite album covers floating through her mind. He tapped the body of his guitar, toothy grin adding to her indecision.

A customer wandered in with a sleepy wave, clutching a tub of some pre-workout supplement she didn’t care to examine, plonking it onto the counter. Clayton took a few backward strides, as another ambled inside, taking their sweet time deciding on a multivitamin and striking up conversation with the first customer. Mandy hadn’t experienced a gentleman play live music, and she was not about to lose the opportunity over a transaction, unavailable as he may be. She kept him in her peripheral vision, sneaking a spirited glance his way when nobody was looking.

It wasn’t until she was ringing up the last customer she heard it. The most annoying song Mickey had ever subjected her to on repeat, vibrating through the redheads’ throat in deep hums, as he picked up random products to bide his time. Waves of giddiness crashed through her as the last customer disappeared into the mall. It took her a minute to put the pieces together, but she wasn’t nescient. Intelligence was one quality they had blessed her with.

“Still wanna play for me, or have you lost your mojo?”

Clayton dragged his thumb across the strings. “Got a tune yet?”

“I like the one you were humming,” she said with ambiguity. “Elton John, right?”

“Anything else you wanna hear?” he asked, the boundaries of his ears burning bright red with his query, varied shades of heat flowing across his forehead and cheeks, spilling across the bridge of his nose. She watched his freckles soften against the flush of colour and had to hold herself back from hopping over the counter. “Do you like The Beatles?”

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Ian?”

She caught him off guard, and his feedback was priceless. If she could bottle it up and deliver it to Mickey as an early Christmas gift, she would trade her soul to pull it off.

“I—um, nothing this year. I have some gigs over the weekend, but that’s about it. How did you know?”

“How did I know your actual name, or that you’re keen on my brother?”

“Clayton is my name, just not my first. When they signed me up, they used my middle name by accident,” he stammered, his mouth forming a tight line. “I should have said something, I feel terrible about it.”

“Are you a conscientious man, Ian?” she asked, trying to keep the bounty of giggles simmering in her belly. She didn’t care about his name. If she had the chance, she’d consider changing hers too.

“I try to be.”

“Did you avoid coming in here because you didn’t want me to find out?”

His hard swallow almost shattered her bellicose smoke screen. “Yes.”

“Are you the one making my brother gripe about his jeans being too tight?” Ian’s eyebrows shot up, and she realized the connotation it carried after it tumbled from her lips. “Because you’re feeding him too many sweets—jackass.”

A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, though his face could sizzle an egg. “Apple fritters. He told me to knock it off, but I still pick them up sometimes. I think he looks good for what it’s worth. I don’t care about—that stuff.”

“ _Good_?”

“Great. He looks great. I didn’t want to wax rhapsodic for obvious reasons, but um—I can attest that his jeans fit.”

Her resolve softened as she let herself chuckle at his trepidation. Mickey didn’t need a critical eye on him, and Ian had been nothing but a bona fide sweetheart. He was quirky, and she hadn’t caught a single bad vibe from him. “Wanna meet for lunch, Emily Dickinson? Sounds like we have some catching up to do.”

“I’d like that.”

\----------

They met at a ramen restaurant a five-minute walk from the mall. The décor cluttered the obnoxious yellow walls and the red pleather booths clashed something awful, but the food was delectable, and didn’t break the bank. She gave Mickey a feeble excuse to bail on their routine meetup and was on her way. Ian showed up on time and his nervousness dissipated as they slurped their soup and talked about life on the Southside. It turned out that the Gallaghers were a stone's throw away from the Milkovich dwelling, and it both stung her heart and relieved her that Mickey hadn’t met the redhead sooner.

Mandy hadn’t shared her family history with anyone, because speaking of the trauma put her body through mayhem, and she would go to great lengths not to relive it. Mickey didn’t open up about it to his circle either, but he had his own reasons. Their adoptive parents had been diligent about therapy from the jump. Even when they didn’t want to go, and refused to attend without the other present, their parents made it a priority while they still lived in the home. The siblings would never admit it, but it made a significant difference in who they were, and who they might’ve become.

“Where’s your family now?” she asked, keeping her hands busy with absent minded swirls of her chopsticks against a pile of noodles.

“Back home. Well, my older brother moved to Milwaukee, but the rest are still Southside. What about yours?”

“Ours is a mess. I’m assuming Mick hasn’t filled you in on any of that.”

Ian shook his head. “I didn’t want to pry.”

“Brothers are dead or in jail. Mom croaked when we were kids, dads locked up. A foster family picked us when Mickey was still in the hospital.”

The redhead wiped dribbles of broth from his chin. “Hospital?”

“Terry—our dad—is about as ugly as a person can get. Took homophobia to another level. Mickey spent six weeks in a coma. Had to relearn how to do most things when he woke up. The prognosis was a nightmare, but the men who adopted us worked in the medical field and helped him recover.”

Ian slid his bowl away from him, clasping his hands together on the table. “Holy fuck.”

“Yeah. It was bad. He has told no one, and he’d throw me in a meat grinder if he knew I told you, so I’d appreciate it if you said nothing.”

“Why did you tell me?”

She let out a deep breath, sitting rigidly in her seat. “Because I can’t stand another person letting him down. I figure if you’re gonna walk away, it should be now. Mickey deserves someone who is going to stick around without trying to mold him into something he isn’t.”

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not like that, and I don’t scare easy.”

“He has nightmares sometimes. Be careful when you wake him up because he panics.”

“Okay—but Mandy, we haven’t even—”

“There are things he does that he needs to do to feel safe. If you try to change him, I’ll fuck you up. I’m not even close to kidding. Do not make him fall for you if you don’t plan on catching him.”

Ian stared at her with glossy eyes, and she worried he might leave. Instead, he slid out of his booth to slide in beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “And you called me Emily Dickinson.”

“Shut up,” she sniffed. “I didn’t want to dump this on you, and I tried to stay the fuck out of it, but Mickey is dancing and putting on fucking cologne.”

Ian gazed open mouthed at her for a few beats, amusement glistening in his eyes. “Dancing? Are we talking like—ballroom?”

“Oh my god, do not tell him I told you that. He will peel me apart and wear me as a skin suit.”

Laughter followed the redheads wince. “Violence seems to be a trend with you two.”

“Oh trust me, it’s in our blood,” she said, stealing his beverage and drinking it down until the straw squeaked at the bottom of the glass. 

They left their meals half eaten, with a generous tip. They had occupied the table longer than they realized, their conversation roaming to lighter subjects, including the time Mandy took a pole dancing class and Mickey spent weeks calling her by various stage names he invented. She thought the world of her brother, and it was fun being able to share it with someone who cared. Ian was late for class, but if he noticed, he kept quiet about it. It wasn’t until Mandy’s phone blew up with concerned text messages from her co-worker that she came crashing back down to earth.

“I feel like we should run,” Mandy said, pulling a light hoodie over her head. “My brother hates tardiness.”

“Too late now. He locks the door when class starts,” he muttered, balancing a cigarette between his teeth. “You smoke?”

Ian offered her his pack, but she yanked the stick from his mouth. “Do ducks quack?”

“You remind me of him a lot.”

“Who do you think gave him all his best mannerisms?”

\----------

Mandy escorted him through the twinkling lobby of the school, gesturing to the lavish decorations with a head shake. She ignored Ian’s pleas to let him handle the situation with Mickey on his own, in part because she was desperate to watch her sibling turn into a stuffed bear, and to save the ginger from a public lashing.

Greeted by administration, and several instructors along the way, having spent a plentiful amount of her free time in the vicinity over the years earned her the recognition. She filched a candy cane from the opulent tree next to the elevator, calling out to Charlotte. “Hey—what flavour are these?”

The cheeky woman smirked at her, pushing her glasses low on her nose, glancing at her wristwatch. “Cherry. But that won’t be enough to sway forty-five minutes. I hate to say it kid, but I think you’re going to be sitting this one out.”

Mandy jogged to the front desk, reaching over the counter to swipe a still steaming cup of coffee. When Charlotte groaned, she held up a hand. “You owe me, Charlotte. Mickey still thinks it was me who messed around with the mixers and destroyed all those foam latex prosthetics.”

“He doesn’t like espresso, says it makes him jittery,” she argued, sticking out her tongue.

“It must do. Thanks!” Mandy shoved the redhead into the elevator, giving the receptionist a curtsy as the doors closed.

Muffled chatter filled the hallway as each classroom bustled with activity. She grabbed Ian’s arm, dragging him into the room off to the side. Ian gawked at her while she worked her magic, typing out an SOS message to her brother.

“Stay here. Don’t move. When you hear the elevator doors close, I want you to bolt back to class.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She handed him the coffee, slipping the candy cane between his fingers. “You’re cute, Ian, but Mickey doesn’t fuck around with punctuality.”

Ian shifted on his feet. “He’s gonna notice.”

“Yeah—but he’s not about to wrestle your giant muscles back out the door, is he? Leave the treats on his desk and keep your head down.”

Collusion was a tactic she only pulled out on special occasions, and since she’d been the one to distract the redhead from his obligations, it was the least she could do. Mickey met her downstairs like the loyal brother he was, confusion etched on his face.

“The fuck is going on—you good?” Mickey asked, giving her a once over. “That prick come back to harass you?”

Charlotte whistled a suspicious tune, giggling her way into the storage room.

“Just wanted to see you.”

His brows snapped together. “You high?”

“No, I’m not high—is it a crime to visit my brother?” she huffed, pressing the call button once again. “I told you, I’m visiting your class today.”

Mickey scowled at her as if they painted her in literature and he was trying to make sense of it. “You made me schlepp my ass down here to what—escort you to the door like a princess? I told you not to smoke up during the day, makes you wacky.”

“I’m not high, you shit.”

Mickey snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. When they reached his classroom, his gaze went to the carrot top tucked away at the back before she diverted his attention. Ian didn’t look up from his project. He continued to drag a tool across his sculpture with overwrought precision, making Mickey’s nostrils flare. An invisible wire crackled between them, severed when he turned his glare in her direction.

“Mandy, what did you do?”

She slumped down in his seat, taking a sip from his bribe before handing it to him. “Nothing.”

“Like fuck,” he whispered, turning his back to his students who had too many irons in the fire to pay mind to his disposition. “How’d he get back in here?”

“Who?”

The agitated Milkovich tapped his foot against the laminate floor, steeling himself against her intrusion. “You stole this from Charlotte, didn’t you?”

“Will you stop with the Spanish Inquisition already? Go teach your class, I’m just here to watch. Oh—I got you candy.”

Mickey laughed under his breath, stuffing the candy cane in his pocket. “Stealing from my cohorts isn’t bringing me gifts. Only monsters swipe candy from a Christmas tree, Mandy.”

“Save it. I see the wrappers you jam in the cup holders every year.”

Tittering rang out behind him and Mickey made a strangled sound in his throat. One particular chortle stood out among the rest, and if Mandy hadn’t already swooped her butterfly net and caught a redhead, the way her brother’s body stiffened was a definitive answer. He spun around to an impressive sculpture of a penis that had Mandy’s sides splitting with laughter. One of his students used her spare time and materials for comedic relief, another fit of giggles breaking out when Mickey squashed the atrocity and tossed it in the trash with a quirk on his lips.

“Hilarious, Jenna. If you get a less than exceptional score on your final, you’ll owe it all to your masterpiece.”

\----------

Mickey’s skin buzzed when the classroom filled without a single flash of red hair in sight. The space Ian occupied in the room was ghost empty, and it sent sharp pangs through his chest. The redhead waited outside his classroom door day after day, never a minute late. He checked his emails against his cardinal rule, as the prattling transcended into clicks of tools against clay and cement, stifling every worrisome scenario his anxiety fed him. Something must be wrong, or he was late, and if he was late, it meant he’d have to refuse him entry to class to maintain his standard, which made his stomach churn all the same. He made exceptions here and there, but doing the same for Ian leaned to favouritism.

Mandy’s text tossed a match to the butane. He should’ve known it would connect the two. Mickey loved his sister too much to hurl her weak body out the window, but just barely. He all but sent her careening out the door after she overstayed her welcome, a hint of admiration for her trickery. It was a miracle she held a job outside her devotion to meddling in his life.

He let the group out early, redeeming themselves with surprising dedication to their projects over the past month. They let out deep sighs through bright smiles, taking advantage of an early start to their weekend. Mickey tried to conquer the gravitational pull he had to the man still sculpting at his desk, but it was hopeless.

“Go home, Gallagher.”

Ian scraped at the edges of moist clay with the dull side of a putty knife, placing the tool down to reach for another. “Thirty-four minutes until class is over.”

“Not today, champ. Early dismissal.”

Beneath ginger lashes, green eyes met his gaze. “I didn’t pay for early dismissal, you’re still on the clock.”

“You were late. Your ass is lucky to be here at all. Strike two, Red.”

Ian chuckled, etching fine lines across the surface of his sculpture. “Think I can make it one more week?”

“I think if you don’t, you fail my class.”

The redhead slid his chair backward with a crash against the wall, large strides across the room until he reached the door. Mickey opened his mouth to protest the mess he left behind, and the guitar still tucked away beside his desk, but his voice froze in his throat when he heard the door close and the lock click.

“Turns out I know your sister.”

“Congrats.” Mickey said, blinking through the whooshing of blood in his ears, his heart racing like the gates had opened and there were thoroughbreds galloping for the gold.

“We went for lunch, lost track of time,” Ian murmured, leaning against Mickey’s desk like he owned the place. “Didn’t want to interrupt her.”

“Your mistake.”

Ian nodded, frowning at the ground. “Why didn’t you kiss me?”

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat, rolling a piece of clay between his forefinger and thumb to keep from levitating. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Mickey picked up Ian’s life cast, inspecting his sculpture. “This is looking good. I wanna show you something, though,” he explained, as he moved to place the life cast on his desk. He motioned to the seat across from him. “Sit.”

The redhead followed suit with an irritated groan. “You’re trying to avoid me, and I get it—”

“Can you shut up for a second? Look,” Mickey said, running a gentle finger over the texture in the clay to smooth it out. “Skin texture isn’t a guessing game. You can’t go abstract with it unless you’re doing creature makeup and even then—the surface of your skin matters.”

“I tried to pull from reference photos online,” Ian offered, leaning to get a better view of the way he balanced the tool between his fingers, his skillful wrist flicking with light pressure. 

“Look at your hand, what do you see?”

He wriggled his fingers with a smirk. “Pale ass skin.”

“Nah, man, beyond that,” Mickey said, holding his hand out flat. Ian’s eyes darted from the bag of tools to his palm, calculating his next move. “Your hand, Gallagher. I won’t bite.”

Ian slid his long fingers across the instructors’ hand, freckled skin cold to the touch. Mickey pulled his hand up for close inspection, willing himself to stick to the script and be the teacher the redhead deserved. “There are shapes. Hundreds of tiny little diamonds.”

“I see it now. That’s so cool. I thought it was more of a crisscross.”

“I mean it can be, but the shapes make it believable,” Mickey ran the pad of his thumb across chilled skin. “You cold?”

“It’s freezing in here,” Ian said, a hint of contrition in his voice.

“Ah, you get used to it. I double up my socks sometimes, this time of year especially.”

Ian scoffed. “LA doesn’t have winter. You forget about frosty Chicago already, old man?”

“Old man?” Mickey snickered, holding Ian’s hand against his cheek to offer a source of heat. “Watch your tone, sweater sniffer.”

Ian glanced from Mickey’s eyes to their caress, hesitant, curious fingers beginning to stroke his cheek. Mickey didn’t protest the oscillation, so Ian’s heavy lids fluttered to a close. It exposed the freckles that graced him there. Mickey clenched his jaw, turning his mouth toward the touch, placing a lingering kiss to each soft pillow of skin separated by the joints on his hand. A moan escaped the redheads throat, and it was music to his ears.

“Come over tonight,” Ian whispered with gentle tugs to the dark hair his fingers could reach from across the desk. “I wanna be alone with you.”

“You’re already alone with me, man.”

“Away from school—somewhere we can order takeout and watch movies.”

Mickey leaned back, breaking their contact to press his palms against his eyes. “We can’t. You’re almost done this module, just a little while longer.”

Ian tore a strip of paper from the attendance list, writing his phone number. “If you change your mind, I’m a call away. Promise to keep my hands to myself. I just want to spend time with you, see if your taste in film holds up to your taste in music.”

“I can already tell you it does.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Ian teased, putting his life cast away with the rest of them, before collecting his coat and guitar. “See ya, Mick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All in favor of Mickey putting that phone number to good use, say aye.
> 
> Thank you for the kind and respectful comments. They are greatly appreciated. Have a fantastic weekend, I'll be back soon.


	7. Can We Pretend That Airplanes in the Night Sky Are Like Shooting Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey takes a shot in the dark. Ian is his lighthouse.

Ian copped a squat on a bus bench kitty corner of the mall, waiting for his friend. Her shifts at the dollar store ran late as her workmates turned up whenever the mood struck. But it was no bother to him. Two buses drove past, both heading to his location, but with his guitar across his lap it was just another opportunity to make strangers of the bustling city smile. He strummed a tune, nodding at roused onlookers, doing all conceivable to avoid reaching for his phone.

“I’m so sorry, Ian. Grayson was fifteen minutes late for his shift, _again_.” Dallis panted, leaning forward to catch her breath. “Thanks for holding up.”

Ian scooted to make room for her on the bench. “No sweat. I’m catching some rays and making a few bucks doing what I love. Zero complaints here.”

“Your pasty butt _could_ use some vitamin D,” she tittered, digging through her oversized canvas handbag. “These came in today, I knew you’d get a crack out of ‘em.”

She passed him a pack of socks with cartoon avocados frolicking across the fabric, guitars in hand. His adulation for animated dress socks started when he was just a kid, a cheap way to spruce up his otherwise second-hand wardrobe. Dallis swiped a pair any time a new pattern hit the shelves, along with any other ironic clothing they stocked, in exchange for a music lesson here and there.

“You’re the best,” Ian said, pulling up his pant leg to expose a peek of his jelly fish socks. “I blew a hole through the toe—this must be a sign that it’s time to move on.”

“Speaking of signs, I noticed you haven’t stopped smiling for weeks. New boy toy?”

A bus squealed to a stop beside them, warm air wafting from the vehicle as the doors swung open to welcome them inside. They tapped their cards on their way to find an available seat, forced to settle for a spot across from each other, the aisle separating them.

“Not boy toy,” Ian started, leaning around a man obliged to stand and grip the handles above them. “Something much better than that.”

Intrigued, Dallis let out a jubilant chirp. “Are we talking, main squeeze?” The man between them scrunched his eyes shut in apparent agitation, Dallis none the wiser. “Oh my god! Is he the one?”

Ian laughed, wedging his guitar between his legs. “What makes you figure it’s a guy? Maybe it has nothing to do with that.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday. You’ve got dick written all over your face.”

Another passenger scoffed at their antics, imminent displeasure sure to pop off at any juncture. Ian sent her a wink, leaning back to slip his ear buds in for the rest of the ride, his giddy friend doing the same, but not before huffing in response to the petulant woman still addressing her with the hairy eyeball.

Twenty minutes of grid locked traffic accompanied by a sluggish crawl that seemed to creep on for months, and they arrived at his dilapidated building. Dallis lived a ten minute jog away, a measurement she used for most every distance, her athleticism far surpassing his. It devoted them to keeping each other active, both stumbling into fits of depression. She had no issue making the trek back and forth, but spent many nights curled up in Ian’s bed, when his roommates were too busy to gripe about their rental agreement.

He grew up sharing his bedroom with most of his relatives, and while he imagined himself to live on his own for that very reason, being in a city without them made him crave the familiar company. Dallis came from a conservative background based in senescent family values, disowned by her parents when she stopped attending church, and brought a girlfriend to the dinner table. Her parents expected her to follow in their footsteps and study law. She strayed from the beaten bath in pursuit of wanderlust. Ian was family.

“Okay, so I need the dossier. What is he like, where does he live, how many dogs does he have?”

Ian rattled the key in the rusted main door, slamming his body weight against it until the combination gained them entry. “Amazing. LA. I have no idea.”

She beat him to the staircase, walking backward up the steps to maintain dominance. “You didn’t ask how many dogs he has? Have you neglected the three D’s?”

He lunged forward, hauling her over his shoulders until her giggles filled the stairwell. “You must remind me, Dal.”

“Dexterous. Dependable. Dogs. It’s our essential checklist, Ian. Sheesh. You let that slip, and it all falls apart.”

Auburn waves bounced across her face as he plopped her back on the ground, wrangling yet another keyhole that his landlords must have repurposed from the stone age. “He’s my teacher.”

They scuttled through the apartment, dropping their bags beside Ian’s bed, Dallis yanking him down for a well meaning interrogation.

“He’s your _teacher_? Uh oh. Is he married?”

“Hope not.”

“Is he gay?”

Ian covered his face with his forearm. “I mean, I haven’t come out and asked, but I fucking hope so.”

“Holy shit! So, when did this happen? I hit the road for a couple months, and your world gets rocked! Does he realize you’re into him?”

He spilled the beans on his incessant early attendance, and his readiness to linger outside his instructors classroom like he was summoning a love demon with his appetent power ballads, sparing no details on his awkward tells of affection, including the sweater incident and their tryst in the restaurant.

“You _smelled_ his jacket?” She gawked, rolling around like they were six tequila shots into open mic night. “You’re killing me right now. Was he freaked out?”

“Not as much as I was,” Ian groaned.

“Was it a quick whiff or a full on snuff up?”

“I hate you.”

Ian’s pocket vibrated, and he reached for his phone with cheetah velocity. “Unknown number—must be Mickey.”

“Answer it, dummy head!”

“I can’t—we’ve never talked on the phone before.”

“First time for everything. What’s wrong with you— _answer it_!”

The thudding in his chest created a whirlwind of tension and turmoil that muddled his thoughts and the words his throat. “I’ll let it go to voicemail.”

Dallis snatched the device, but the call ended before she spoke. “You suck. What if he was calling to confess his undying love? Talk about a missed opportunity.”

A chime and a notification for two text messages had them crowding the screen in anticipation.

_**Hey Gallagher. It’s Mick. Don’t really do the phone call thing, but a song came on the radio and it made me think of you.** _

_**You like airplanes?** _

Ian held his phone to his chest. “Do I like airplanes?”

“I-I don’t know. Like—for travel? Bath toys? _Wallpaper_?”

Another text interrupted their frenzy.

_**There’s a park a few hundred yards from a burger joint I go to sometimes. Great spot to watch them land at LAX. It’s not too cold tonight, but enough that we won’t have to share our grub with the public. You down?** _

Dallis stared at him with saucer eyes and slack jaw, leaping from the bed to tear through his wardrobe. “Fuck yes, you like airplanes! Where’s that green button down? Don’t tell me those acid wash jeans are in the hamper.”

Ian heard her phrases, but nothing registered.

“Ian—get your funky ass in the shower pronto. Are you even listening to me?”

He read the text message again, thrill spreading through him like hot caramel on ice cream. “This sounds like a date.”

“Because it is, you colossal fool. Watching planes land? Be still my maudlin heart. Don’t you dare let your scrambled head impede this.”

“He’s my—teacher. We’re supposed to wait.”

“Are you kidding me? This is what you want, right?”

Sexual tension was a recognizable concept to him. Attraction, even. But Ian had never been on a formal date. While he replayed their impromptu hangout like a vinyl record, it wasn’t a calculated date. The very thought of having a beer with Mickey was adequate enough to send his inhibitions into overdrive. This had entanglement doused all over it. He was a patient man, but resisting his lips under those circumstances would be harrowing.

“What should I do?”

“Text him back with a yes and a hundred eggplant emojis—what do you think? Go for it, Ian. You deserve an encounter that doesn’t involve some douchebag screwing you in their parents’ vacation home while their creepy gardener watches from the poolside.”

He typed a response and raced to the bathroom.

_**Airplanes are my jam. Where should I meet you? What time?** _

With a rasp of the shower curtain, his clothes hit the chipped tile floor, another chime making his stomach twist.

_**Thought I’d come pick you up, take a cruise through the hills for a bit. It’s cool if you wanna meet me there though, up to you.** _

\----------

Mickey pulled up fifteen minutes early, which was twenty minutes later than Ian had already been pacing the lobby. Dallis made a run for it before she could give Mickey the third degree, but it wasn’t without contention. She wanted to meet him almost as bad as Ian needed to push him up against the nearest wall.

Beams of sunlight reflected off his tanzanite blue BMW, tinted windows disguising his face enough that Ian could make it to the passenger seat without the blood rushing from his head. Mickey reached across the center console to open the door, almost clipping Ian.

“Hey, man. Where’s your guitar?”

Ian made a clumsy drop into the leather seat, his fine motor skills taking the night off. “I wasn’t sure if I should bring it—didn’t want the distraction.”

Mickey raked his teeth over his bottom lip, the quirk of his brow turning Ian’s limbs to mush. He wasted no time taking in Ian’s appearance, dragging his gaze from his hair to his feet.

“Green’s your colour, Gallagher. You hungry?”

The drive was picturesque, Ian using the view as an excuse to absorb how delicious Mickey looked in a fitted leather jacket, hair slicked to perfection except for a few tendrils he was aching to brush from his forehead. He was a dreamboat in anything he donned, but the way his threads hugged his torso, drenched in his smell, was intoxicating. He tried to keep his inspection stealthy, flitting from his thick thighs to the rolling hills, but discretion had never been his strong point.

“Fuck you lookin’ at?” Mickey teased, turning down the radio.

“You look good.”

“Mm.”

“Really good.”

Mickey’s cheeks swelled with a grin, hibiscus pink at the apples. “Thanks, man. Been a while since I’ve had a reason to suit up. Mandy spun around me like a fuckin’ Yorkie at the groomers, ripping all my shit off the hangers. Glad you like the result.”

Ian ran his fingers over the heat climbing up his neck, wishing to keep his blushing at bay. “You have dogs?”

“Nah, I want one, but we don’t have time. Not at home enough and convincing Mandy to walk a dog every day would be more work than the actual task.”

“I get that. I always wanted one, but never had the means.”

“No pets as a kid?”

Ian picked at a ripple in the knee of his jeans. “Nope. Fiona worked in a vet clinic for a while, so I got to walk the dogs sometimes, but never anything I could take home.”

Mickey placed his hand on top of Ian’s, quelling the fidgeting at his knee. “Nervous?”

“Very.”

“I hope this is okay—hanging out tonight.”

Ian spun his wrist, tangling their fingers. “You mean the date you’re taking me on?”

The tip of Mickey’s tongue poked through his lips, the edges of his eyes crinkling with a smile. “Is that what this is?”

“You tell me, Casanova.”

Mickey focused his gaze on the road ahead, leaning his chin to his steering wheel to scratch with his thumb, instead of letting go of his hand. The gesture invoked an ember of warmth in his chest. Ian turned the volume back up, allowing the stiffness in his shoulders, and the crimp in his stomach to ease. They weaved through the scenic route, palm trees mixed among the foliage, the sultry botanical army world’s away from what waited for them on the streets of Chicago.

Ian didn’t aggrandize material items, never drawn toward more than what he could carry in his guitar case, but the finer possessions alluded to stability. A single glance at Mickey’s ride, and it was clear there was wisdom in the way he spent his money, without sacrificing indulgence.

“You like it?” Mickey asked, catching on to his musings at the luxury interior.

“Your car? Yeah—it’s beautiful. I’ve been saving my pennies for a while, still haven’t made it past lemons on Craigslist. You should be proud of your hard work, Mickey.”

“Trust me, this is the flashiest thing I own. My apartment is a dump.”

“Your roommate is pretty cool.”

“Yours aren’t?”

Ian gave him the low down on his compatriots, the most vainglorious people he’d ever met, and that was saying something given the city they lived in. Mason was the worst of them, unreasonable in any situation, with an aura of privilege and homophobia. He avoided them where possible, but his patience was wearing thin.

“My plan was to wait until I graduated to get a place, it’s an astonishing feat I’ve made it this long. They hate music, can you believe that? I’ve known no one like that.”

“Sound like psychopaths.”

“I support that theory,” Ian chuckled, squeezing Mickey’s hand when his expression darkened. “Thought it would be cool to find a house out here somewhere. I’d have to settle for a rough neighborhood, but it might bring me some comfort being back in the madness.”

“You searching for that white picket fence, Gallagher?”

“I think so. Life was wild on the Southside, but I enjoyed having a place to go, y’know? Something to call home.”

Mickey fixed his gaze on Ian for a beat longer than he should, returning to the streets ahead. “Are you sticking it out here, then? No plans to move away?”

“I mean, I’m open to it. Don’t have any baggage yet, no babies on my hip. I can’t handle going with the flow as much as I did as a teen, though. Not great for my mental health.”

They pulled into a deserted parking lot, Mickey shifting the car into park and unbuckling his seatbelt. Ian had to will himself not to swallow his tongue.

“Mandy wants me to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner.”

“At your place?”

“My parents.”

Ian mulled it over, drinking in their intertwined fingers, and how they seemed to fit together like a glass slipper. “Is that what you want?”

Mickey’s jaw flexed, worrying his bottom lip. “I’m not sure what I want beyond getting to know you better. I think I’m fuckin’ smitten by you and it scares the shit out of me. You’re under my skin, man.”

“What if I’m a terrible lay?” Ian joked, sweat building between their palms. “I could be a sloppy kisser. Selfish between the sheets.”

“I highly fuckin’ doubt that.”

“Wanna find out?”

Mickey watched him with intensity, narrowing his eyes as the gears wrenched in the trenches of his mind. “Hold your horses, Red. Gotta wine and dine you first.”

“Don’t like wine.”

The moan from Mickey’s throat was an aphrodisiac, temptation of the highest degree. “You wanna fuck me on the hood of this car, Gallagher? Take me right here where anyone could see?”

If it were a test, Ian was ready to tumble into failure on the off chance he’d get a gold star. “Say the word, Milkovich.”

Mickey stole his hand back, wiping his palm on his jeans, throwing the car into gear with a smirk. So, he liked to tease. No problem. He could tango. “It’s the hair, isn’t it? The soul thing, maybe? It’s not true. Gingers have souls of our own, no need for yours.”

“Nah, I like your hair.”

“Threatened by my height? I get that a lot.”

“Nope.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I can’t wreck you on an empty stomach, now can I?”

Blood rushed below his navel in an instant. The lines between playful and erotic blurred between them, something he was developing an addiction to. Mickey was frustrating in all the ways a man should be.

“I knew you liked it rough.”

Laughter erupted between them, a tattooed hand making its way to the back of Ian’s neck. Never had a man touched him with such protective, yet gentle support. Mickey touched him like he’d never have to live in fear, so long as they were in the same orbit. Ian let his back melt into the leather, getting lost in the music again.

\----------

Fiona always said that his eyes were bigger than his stomach, and it was true. Mickey laid a blanket out on the grass, paper bags full of jalapeno poppers and onion rings spilling out amongst their burgers. Dallis shoved a pack of mints in his pocket on her way out, and he adored her fastidious mind. They ordered more than they’d be able to consume, but they’d worked up an appetite toying with each other’s libido.

“Warm enough?” Mickey asked. The temperature dropped as the sun descended, but their position scattered Ian’s senses too much to notice. “Got another blanket in the car if you get cold.”

“I’m good for now, thanks. How’s your food?”

Mickey sucked the juices from the tips of his fingers. “Hitting the spot. Started coming out here a few years back when I needed an escape but couldn’t fuck off too far. The food is just a bonus.”

Ian didn’t expect to encounter a point in his existence where he envied a beef patty and some bread, but with Mickey, nothing was off the table. “Do you, um—bring your friends up here a lot?”

“Are you asking if I’ve brought a guy up here before?”

“No,” Ian lied, crumpling the saucy wrappers, and tossing them in an empty bag.

“You’re a crappy liar,” he teased, wiping the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. “You’re the first. Haven’t even dragged my sister up here.”

“You said you needed an escape. What were you running from?”

Mickey dug out a pack of smokes from his jacket, slipping a cigarette between his lips, smoke billowing from his nose with a few drags before responding. “Bad relationship. Met this guy while I was diving into my first major film project, let myself get distracted.”

“Asshole?”

“I mean, yeah. Didn’t want me spending time with anyone else, wedged his way into shit I wasn’t ready for. Everything was a fight, y’know? I couldn’t get through a day where he wasn’t looking to scrap about something.”

“I can relate to that.”

“Got a shitty boyfriend under your belt too?”

Ian scratched at a hang nail on his thumb, a cramp setting into his gut. “Shitty relationship, more like. We weren’t a suitable match. He was a real social justice warrior, big on helping youth—”

“Sounds like a villain,” Mickey grunted, tapping Ian’s leg to share his cigarette.

“It got to be overbearing, I guess. He didn’t get my family history, made me feel like crap about my health. Pushed me into commitment when I was still wrapping my head around everything. He wasn’t a terrible person, but I started feeling terrible with him, if that makes sense.”

Mickey pushed the bags aside, shuffling down on the blanket to stare up at the sky. “Think we caught commitment issues from the mean streets of Chicago?”

“I think so. I saw no one in a decent relationship. It was always drama and chaos—a revolving door of morons my siblings lugged home. My parents were a disaster. Guess it sort of turned me off the whole thing.”

Ian joined him on the blanket, watching the canvas of the sky transform to midnight blue behind candy clouds. The smog of the city dissipated with a quiet breeze, a chill setting at the tips of his toes. Mickey’s chest rose and fell, calm in his demeanor.

“Where’s your head at now?”

Ian couldn’t plan an answer if Albert Einstein held the pen. His circuit board of common sense fried the moment he met Mickey. “I’m drawing a blank. I haven’t had a grasp on my thoughts for a while now.”

“Mental health stuff?”

“Something like that.”

\----------

Mickey practiced mindful breathing when the cords that held him to the ground sent him floating away. For once in his life, it caught him between counting his breaths and wanting to drift. Planes roared above them, the bright white belly of the aircrafts appearing just a reach away, breaking up the lull of titters and soft smiles.

It reminded him of his mom.

She was a skittish spitfire in the eyes of her kids, but weakened under Terry’s reign. She was the only person he’d ever known to be two opposing forces at once. His memories of her faded like a sheet on a clothesline, but her wisdom stuck with him, though he’d never put her words to the test.

_**“Mikhailo, what you see in these walls is not love. Do not sacrifice yourself in the name of comfort until you meet someone who keeps you hungry for life. Love will not hurt you more than you can bear. It will not compromise your soul. When you’ve found it, you’ll know, because you’ll be willing to chase it, and it will let you catch up.”** _

Years sifted through his fingers and he still wasn’t sure if she was the right person to take advice from, but he understood one thing—he’d never been so eager to follow another man into the horizon, the way he wanted to with Ian Gallagher.

“What’s your ideal end game?” Ian asked, rolling onto his side, and a few inches closer.

“End game?”

“Yeah, like—you’re sixty years old, and starting to need shit like reading glasses, and a shoehorn. What do you want around you?”

“ _A fucking shoehorn_?”

Ian chortled into the crook of his arm. “I don’t know. Old people stuff.”

“I just wanna feel inspired, man. I want to know I have purpose. What about you?”

The redhead frowned at the query, like he didn’t expect the question bounced back. “Safety. I can do without the frills, but I think I just need to feel safe. Understood.”

Mickey brushed a piece of hair behind Ian’s ear, thunder from another airplane casting shadows across his face as it pitched for the runway.

“I got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sike! One more chapter before I take a few days off. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Thank you a million for your respectful comments. Please take good care of yourselves out there. It has been a tough year on everyone.


	8. Montagues and Capulets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never a harmless crush between Ian and Mickey. How will they navigate their intense feelings for each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. It has been a long time since I posted last. Thank you for your comments of support and your patience. This has been a deeply challenging year for all of us. I hope you are all staying healthy and safe during these difficult times. I hope my writing can offer you a brief escape. I'm not sure when I'll update again, but I'd like it to be in the very near future. This small world I'm building still inspires me, and brings me joy. Take care, friends.

Snow-capped mountains kissed the evening sky, strokes of orange and purple strewn across the clouds like a wide paint brush coated in thick acrylic decorated them. The airplanes were thunderous above their heads, but Mickey only heard puffs of breath and rustles of fingers on fabric. He should shiver against the night, like the tips of the landforms splitting the sky, but Ian’s glances were smoldering him from the inside out. The longer they lingered, the more he questioned whether he would ever notice cold again.

Ian remained poised just a mere inch from him, and it opened every window of suspense in Mickey’s mind all at once. He had a habit of building things up in his head until it was all he could focus on, and at the moment, he ruminated on the first move, and how he would handle the redhead getting a leg up if he couldn’t muster the courage himself. He’d known his way around the technicalities of intimacy for ages, yet he calculated every languid movement like it might send him tumbling off balance. Ian’s coolheaded temperament was no reflection of the whirl of jitters building under Mickey’s skin. He’d overcome many spine tingling hurdles in his lifetime, but nothing compared to the fear of getting it wrong.

“I’ve got mints,” Ian said, pulling them from his pocket. “Pineapple. Weird flavour, right? _Pineapple_. Want one?” Ian gave a nervous laugh, popping open the lid and shaking the contents into his palm. More than he’d be able to consume in one sitting. Mickey watched as Ian’s nimble fingers dropped the excess back inside the container one by one.

“You saying I’ve got bad breath?”

Ian’s skin flushed from crown to stubbled chin. “N-no.”

“I’m playing with you, Red.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Ian’s mouth, holding his hand out with uncertainty. “So—is that a yes?”

“Sure.”

The tangy candy melted on his tongue. He listened to the rattle of another mint dropping from the chamber, the redhead crunching with caution, like he might attempt to stifle the noise his crunching made. The sanctuary of butterflies in the pit of his stomach fluttered helter-skelter.

“Can I ask you something?” Ian whispered, sliding a finger into one of Mickey’s belt loops, tropical sugar catching the breeze at the edge of his breath.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you give me a second chance—in the beginning?”

He contemplated firing off a sarcastic retort, but the way Ian held onto the waist of his jeans, like he feared being ejected from the ground and into the abyss, kept him humble. “I dug your resilience, man. It takes balls to step up like you did. Most people wouldn’t.”

Ian untangled his fingers from Mickey’s jeans to sit up on his elbows with a cocky grin. “It was my enormous balls that got you, eh?”

“Knock it off.”

“No, it’s all good. They’re infamous—I wear ‘em with pride.”

“You’re a nightmare, did you know that?”

The redhead crumbled with laughter, broad shoulders bouncing with exuberance. He took no offence to Mickey’s playful barb, and his optimism was contagious. An airliner soared over their heads in a slow descent, flickering lights alternating from the front of the fuselage to the rear, capturing their attention until they shared only calm breaths between them.

“Why airplanes?” Ian asked, laying his head on Mickey’s chest.

He sucked in a deep breath, moving his fingers into silky red hair. “It reminds me I’m not stuck, I guess. I can be anywhere I want, with a single ticket. Sometimes I lay here and wonder how many people are running from their lives or touching down to start fresh—how many people are leaving this city for the same reason. It’s not like I wanna run or whatever, but it helps that I have an out if I need it.”

“Do you ever need it? Do you feel trapped?”

His wriggling fingers kicked up a whiff of Ian’s shampoo, and suddenly he was walking through an orchard with peach juice dripping down his chin. “Sometimes. But not so much physically. It’s more up here,” he explained, tapping on Ian’s temple instead of his own, with no other excuse to connect with his warm skin. “I can’t always escape what’s going on in my head.”

Ian sniffed against a fistful of Mickey’s shirt. “You’re not alone with that one. Did Mandy already tell you about me?”

“That you’re the hottest, sweetest, _oh my god Mickey_ —kindest man she’s ever met?” he teased, raising the pitch of his voice to emanate his sister, eliciting a soft laugh from the redhead.

“That too. No, um—about my bipolar.”

Ian’s confession cracked in his throat, like the words might strangle him, or it caused him agony to speak it out loud. Mickey had heard the term being thrown around throughout the years, but never in the proper context, and always with heavy implications and an unhealthy dose of stigma. Mandy had shared nothing with him, aside from her apparent obsession with how pure of heart he was, and how it was time he found someone to share his passions with.

“Is it tough to manage?”

“It’s easier when I take my meds. Without them it gets pretty bad.”

Mickey traced the edge of Ian’s ear with his thumb. “How bad?”

“Bat shit crazy, bad. I get manic out of the blue, and then it’s all downhill from there. The worst part is that I can’t always tell when it’s happening. It feels normal so it can get out of control fast. I spent a few months in the psych ward when I was first diagnosed—took me a while to pull myself back together.”

Images of padded rooms and dark circles against ghost pale skin filled his mind, a product of too many horror flicks and shit talking douchebags from his old neighborhood. The desire to protect Ian overwhelmed him, almost as much as his sudden need to know more. “Does your family help?”

“They tried. It was too much for them, I think. Monica—our mom—she had it too. Fucked us all up, so it hurt them to see me like that. They still look at me like I’m a loose cannon sometimes.”

Mickey remembered a counsellor from elementary school suggesting PTSD as something he struggled with, and Terry cackling in his face when he found the informative slip of paper in his backpack. It didn’t matter that his brain and his body were functioning at half mast while he tried to regulate his traumatic responses. Mental health was not a notable ailment unless it caused him to bleed out on his bedroom floor, and in Iggy’s case, even that wasn’t enough.

“Who looks out for you then?”

Ian flipped to his stomach, resting his cheek above Mickey’s heart with a timid smile. “I see a therapist sometimes. I don’t always notice when I’m waist deep in mania, but there are ways for me to identify when I’ve ignored my triggers—working out too much or fixating on one thing for too long. Even bouncing around too many subjects, fast talking.”

Obsession was something Mickey could relate to. It limited his treasure trove of coping mechanisms, but losing himself in a topic or new project was as much a part of him as breathing.

“My brother—Iggy—he struggles with his head. Got him into a lot of trouble. It sucks that the system doesn’t help people beyond tossing them behind bars,” Mickey whispered, stroking Ian’s cheek with the tip of his finger. “If you need help Gallagher, you call me, okay? I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night or whatever. I’ll never judge you—even when you smell my clothes like a stalker.”

A blush resurfaced on the redheads’ face, rivaling the tones of his hair. He hid the flare up in Mickey’s shirt, voice muffled. “So—damn—embarrassing.”

“Nah, man. I know I tease you about it, but that made me feel incredible. I figured you were into me, but that sort of drove the point home. It was the cutest shit I’ve ever seen. Don’t tell anyone I said that, though.”

They lay together as the city buffed the daily grind from its streets, preparing for nightlife. Decades old trees and a lush hillside concealed them from the population, a fragment of privacy, but somewhere in the distance, heavy bass and lilted rhythms rang out.

Ian shifted above Mickey’s sternum, closing his eyes. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

Mickey swallowed hard, grazing his hand along Ian’s waistband, drifting his icy fingers just under the hem of his shirt. “Is it giving me away?”

The redhead smirked with a slight arch of his back as Mickey’s fingers trailed along his spine, exposing his freckled skin to the breeze. “Well, I’m no doctor, but I think you’re nervous.”

“Oh yeah? And what am I nervous about?”

Ian matched his hard swallow, pushing himself up just enough to linger above Mickey’s face. “The next step.”

His green eyes glistened, reflecting a city that seemed to only fall away the longer his gaze held, lost in specks of gold and hints of blue. Mickey had never met a man so breathtaking in his vulnerability. “And what would that be?”

Ian smirked, long fingers slipping into dark hair. “I kiss you—if you’ll let me.”

Mickey’s heart throbbed through his ribcage, his small nod of approval giving way to a taste of Ian he never knew his soul had been missing. The lightest touch of chilled noses found the other first—slow, so slow Mickey had to remind himself to keep breathing. A near silent whimper vibrated from his throat, followed by the most excitable little moan from Ian’s smiling lips. He had never felt someone smile against his mouth. It was the closest to flying he could get from beneath the rumbling airplanes above. Pineapple mint lingered at the tips of their tongues as they explored each other, their bodies fitting together like a leaf breaking away from its branch, drifting in natural descent to the surface of an emerald lake. When he pulled away to catch his breath, Ian let out a quiet whine, as if it cut through his air supply, and Mickey understood.

“Already?” Ian pouted, nestling his face against the side of Mickey’s neck. “I could do this all night.”

“Gotta let me catch my breath, Red,” he said, trying to pull himself together while simultaneously unravelling under the heat of a man he was unsure he could live without.

“Ah, just admit it. I take your breath away.”

“You’re an entire idiot, have I mentioned that?” Mickey teased, making no effort to put distance between them. “A whole freckled, idiot.”

“If you weren’t stabbing me in the leg with your boner right now, that might insult me,” Ian retorted, quirking his brow in challenge. “Kiss me.”

“Can’t.”

“You can. Just close your eyes,” Ian whispered, pulling the neck of his shirt down just enough to leave sips of gentle kisses along his collarbone.

Any resolve Mickey held onto was falling like grains of sand through an hourglass. “You trying to fuck me up?”

“That’s the idea,” Ian grinned, nuzzling into him with slow flicks of his tongue, leaving soft bites against his skin each time a groan made an unwarranted escape. “If you kiss me now, I promise I’ll never ask you to do it again.”

“Whoa—hold on,” Mickey said, reaching a hand up to grab Ian’s jaw. “Never again? That’s the worst deal I’ve ever heard.”

“I won’t have to ask. You’ll be too hooked to stop. Seems like a win-win to me.”

“Were you always this cocky?”

Ian flashed a jubilant smile, taking his impatient kisses on the move, slipping further down Mickey’s torso. “You tell me.”

He watched the crotch of his jeans swell the closer Ian got to his waistband, and the urge to take initiative overwhelmed him. In one fluid movement, Mickey flipped them over, straddling the eager redhead with a grin he was sure matched his own. “Bigger doesn’t mean stronger, Gallagher. Don’t get it twisted.”

A coltish smirk lit Mickey up from the deepest pit of his belly. He wondered if they would have been playful in the same way if they grew up together on the Southside. Ian pressed his gigantic hands against Mickey’s hips, sliding him on top of his own manhood, more girth and length than he predicted, even through the fabric of his pants. 

“I’m loving this view, Mick. _Fuck_ , I want you so bad.”

Their bodies rocked against each other with such subtlety and discretion that the stimulation left Mickey desperate for more, with a morsel of logic remaining. If they kept up the motion, he would lose himself right there on the grass and crumpled blanket. “It’s getting late—I should take you home.”

Ian’s contented expression shifted, worrying his bottom lip. “Did I do something wrong? Shit—did I come on too strong?”

“Ian—”

“I’m so sorry, Mick. I’ve had this insane crush on you for so long, I worked it up in my head so much that I think I just got excited.”

“Hey, you have done nothing wrong,” Mickey said, smoothing a plethora of anxious lines from Ian’s forehead with the pad of his thumb. “I’m into it. I’m into _you_ —big time. It’s just I have this _thing_ I struggle with, it’s not you.”

“Oh. Is it because I haven’t graduated yet?”

“No. I blew that all to hell inviting you out tonight, don’t you think?”

“What is it, then?”

“Look, my sister won’t be back for a couple hours. We could hang out at my place, watch a movie or something. I’ve got beer, and some fancy tea crap Mandy can’t seem to get enough of.”

Mickey’s stomach churned and twisted as Ian tried to make sense of it. “I should get back. My roommates are dickheads, and it’s my turn to take the garbage down,” he said, his best effort at placating Mickey not fooling either of them.

“Fuck ’em. The garbage can wait. We could go for dessert; there’s this fondue place a few minutes from here.”

“Fondue?”

“Yeah, you know the sticks you dip into melted chocolate or whatever. I’ve never been, but Mandy swears by it. You like fruit, right?”

Ian blinked at him, confusion laced between his eyebrows and Mickey wanted to explain himself, letting his fears and demons spill out to ease the doubt etched on Ian’s face. He wanted to tell Ian that this was the first time he’d treasured intimacy with another person so much that he developed an overpowering instinct to protect it from the evils of the world, even the ones behind bars. He needed Ian to understand that although his adoptive family supplied him with resources that changed his life for the better, he still suffered from his traumatic responses sometimes, when his emotions were so significant in particular.

“Say something, man.”

“You don’t want to kiss me in public, but you want to take me to a restaurant where we’d dip fruit in chocolate?”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Mickey blurted, his voice rivalling the airplane roaring above them. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, but I want to spend more time with you.”

Ian tilted his head, his expression softening. Mickey wished he could read him better, a flurry of tension building in his gut. “You swear it wasn’t something I did?”

“I fucking promise.”

Ian fussed with a thread at the edge of the blanket, his own worries seeming to dissipate as he worked them over in his head. “Which movie?”

Mickey let out a ragged breath, the simmering dread in his stomach transforming back into the tiny, freckled butterflies he’d been experiencing for months. It wouldn’t matter what movie they chose; he knew the only scene he cared to watch was Ian.

“Your call, I’ve seen everything already.”

“Everything?” Ian asked, his eyes glistening with spirit and attitude again. “Nobody has seen _everything_.”

He distracted himself with a cigarette, appeasing his mouth for the time being. “You wanna bet?”

\----------

Ian’s apartment fit inside Mickey’s six times over, and while he guessed the city constructed the buildings around the same time, someone knew a thing or two about décor based on how the modern design made the old walls come to life. Mandy’s sweaters and colourful insulated water bottles were littered throughout, but it only added coziness to the mix. Mickey tossed his keys into a dish beside the front door, toeing off his boots as if Ian had been there to witness him do it dozens of times before. He disappeared around the corner, leaving Ian to undo his shoes, and slide them out of the way with care, not wanting to take up more space than he already did.

His relationship with Trevor left him battling his already splintered self esteem. It wasn’t clear at first, but with no genuine source of blame, Ian feeling like a burden to everyone around him became a point of contention in their relationship. If he had to describe it, he would say he was chronically too much for Trevor to handle. There was always something to pick apart, and while Trevor tried to remind him it was for the sake of personal growth, Ian still sprinted at the edge of the treadmill, trying with desperation not to fall off, while Trevor dangled a piece of cake ahead of him. It was reminiscent of the barriers he experienced with his siblings, more obvious after his diagnosis. It became critical to Ian to be the bowl of porridge that was _just right_ , more than ever if Mickey would be the one to eat it.

“Come on in, man. Don’t be shy,” Mickey said, cracking open a beer at the other end of the hallway. “Leave your shoes wherever.”

“You’ve got a nice place.”

“Thanks. Mandy does all the heavy lifting around here. I don’t give a shit about Feng Shui and all that. We’re looking for a new place, though.”

Ian couldn’t think of a single reason anyone would want to give up a place like his. “Oh yeah? How come?”

“Uh—size mostly. Need more space. I like your socks.”

“Huh?”

“Your socks, man. They’re great.”

Ian looked down at his feet, wiggling his toes to distract himself from the burn creeping into his cheeks. “Oh, my friend bought me these. I have a thing for weird socks.”

“Well, I have a thing for guys who like weird socks, so I guess that means we have something in common,” Mickey said, holding his hand out for Ian to take. “C’mere.”

His fear of rejection stood no chance against the prospect of being close to Mickey. On the car ride over, Mickey brushed his knuckles across Ian’s thigh and though it was brief, it set his body on fire. Holding his hand while he took them on a guided tour around the apartment was thrilling.

“I knew you were a nerd, but _this_ ,” Ian said, gesturing at the movie posters tacked all around Mickey’s room, “this is next level.”

“Funny guy, eh?”

“ _Romeo and Juliet_? You keep surprising me, Milkovich. I didn’t take you for the Leonardo DiCaprio type,” he teased, admiring the large print, the only one in the room with a frame. “You a romantic?”

Mickey raked his teeth over his bottom lip, sultry hooded eyes giving Ian a once over that turned his insides to mush. “Their love was a tragedy.”

“Still more romantic than most love stories.”

“Painful, soul crushing, tragedy.”

“Is that why you framed it? _Love is pain_?” Ian asked, sitting at the foot of Mickey’s bed, desperate to stabilize his dizzy knees.

“And if I _am_ romantic?”

Ian wrung his hands together to calm the nervous energy forming at his toes and circuiting through his spine, Mickey’s intense blue eyes drinking him in. “I think that’s okay. It’s nice if you are.”

“Nice?”

“Yeah, I mean it’s no problem if you’re not, but—it would be new for me. This is the most romantic thing I’ve experienced, if I’m being honest. The most anyone has done for me in that way. Well, besides you showing up and pretending to be my husband. That was epic.”

Mickey frowned, scrubbing his hand across his face. “I ruined it for you.”

“Are you kidding me? No, you didn’t. I don’t fault you for not wanting the whole PDA thing. I’m cool with that.”

Tattooed fingers slid between Ian's, the mattress dipping as Mickey settled beside him. “It’s not that. I’m not embarrassed to be with you in public, Ian.”

“What is it then?”

Mickey reached for Ian’s face with his free hand, fingers tracing his stubble, tethering them together with invisible thread.

“I think I’m falling for you, and it scares the hell out of me.”


	9. Heat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey experiences true intimacy for the first time, and Ian falls even harder. Emotions are sky high, which poses a new challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut.  
> Their first 'fight'.  
> Very Ian and Mickey of them.

Mickey dragged several bins of old special effects projects out of storage, enjoying the enthusiastic redhead beaming up at him as he dug through each one. Ian held up a costume meant to emulate 1700s fashion, tilting his head in curiosity.

“And this one?”

“That one,” Mickey said, running his hand along the asymmetrical jacket, “was from my Beauty and the Beast project. I put that together when I was still in school.”

“You made this?” Ian asked, stumbling to his feet to try it on.

“I did. Couldn’t afford a sewing machine so it took me for-fucking-ever to make, but yeah. All me.”

The jacket fit Ian like it had been custom tailored to his body. He pulled at the cuffs, shrugging the article of clothing into place, checking himself out in the mirror behind Mickey’s bedroom door. “This is amazing. Do you make all your costumes?”

“Used to. Don’t have the time anymore. I liked my work better when I was in control of all aspects of it, but I’ve met some talented designers over the years. Lightens the workload anyway.”

Ian spun around to get a look at the back of the jacket, reflecting a generous view for the man trying to peel his gaze away. “I had to make all my costumes as a kid. Halloween meant free candy, which was as good as free food, so we hustled pretty hard. Gave me an appreciation for handmade stuff. Fiona always made her own dresses. She crafted one using an old bed sheet once.”

He watched as the redhead made his way back to the bins, in search of the remaining pieces to the Beast ensemble. Ian was a poor kid, something Mickey gathered without venturing beyond the area he grew up in, but his spirit didn’t belong in that place. He spoke like a child of great privilege, without arrogance, but impervious to the gloom that poverty struck through those neighborhoods. Mickey couldn’t help but respect that.

“Think your family will ever move out this way?”

Ian stopped burrowing through the totes, glancing up at him through narrowed eyes, his answer a mere croak through tight lips. “Is it bad if I’d hate that?”

“Not at all, man. I’d skip town if my family moved.”

“What about Mandy?”

Mickey spotted the matching gloves, tossing them one by one onto Ian’s lap. “Ah, she’s different. We’ve been inseparable for ages. I consider her more a piece of me, than a member of our fucked up family. Where she goes, I go type of thing.”

Ian chewed at the corner of his lip, his hands making busy work of rummaging through Mickey’s projects again. “I think you’re beautiful, Mick.”

“Come on, man—”

“No, I’m serious,” Ian said, his voice low and demanding. “I have met no one like you. It’s like you’re in my blood or my bones or something. Everything about you makes me more intrigued. I can’t get enough.”

Mickey’s heart was a kettledrum, Ian’s words transforming him into a percussion instrument that played only for him. Every moment they spent together was another plummet into Ian’s symphony. 

“I had a dream about you the other night,” Mickey said, wrinkling his nose at himself for letting the testimony slip. Ian’s eyebrows shot up to his hair line, further penalising him. “Okay—don’t get all wild and shit. It was nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Nah, man. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s stupid.”

Ian crawled across the space between them, careful not to crush all the prosthetics and props spilling from the bins. On his knees, he leaned back on his heels, like a child waiting to unwrap a long expected birthday gift.

“Was it a sex dream?”

“Jesus Christ, do you think I’d tell you if it was?” Mickey blurted, crossing his arms in front of his chest in protest. “It’s that damn guitar of yours.”

“You dreamed about my guitar? Now I’m jealous of a pile of strings and wood—that’s a whole new planet of embarrassment.”

Ian’s buoyant charm was as sneaky as it was a blustering success. Secrets wouldn’t be a theme in their relationship, their candidness prepared Mickey to bet his life on it.

“I dreamed that you wrote me a song, okay? There. Happy now?”

His body tingled with warmth from the waist up, the tips of Ian’s ears matching the bridge of his nose in a brilliant shade of pink. Red-faced and flustered was becoming a new normal among them, and where it would in most other situations cause Mickey to fallback, it only made him crave a deeper connection. 

“I started writing songs again, after I met you,” Ian said, breathless in his confession, like it held every key that unlocked Mickey’s cage. The tips of his fingers trailed across Mickey’s lap, massaging his palm against thick thighs. “Maybe you’re my muse.”

“You better kiss me before I realize how lame you are,” Mickey razzed, taking a fistful of Ian’s jacket to yank him forward. “You look damn good in this coat, Gallagher.”

“Guess I must keep it on,” he whispered, his hand gripping the back of Mickey’s neck, leaning into him like any distance between them was detrimental to their health.

His rigid body relaxed as their lips parted, making way for tender kisses. Ian’s hushed moans planted an insatiable hunger in Mickey, his appetite only expanding the deeper they explored. Ian skimmed the surface of Mickey’s bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, sucking a kiss against his cupid’s bow that had him seeing stars behind his eyelids. Aggressive hands slid into the backside of Mickey’s jeans, greedy for the satisfaction it would bring.

“What kind of kinky ass role play is this?” Mandy squawked, arms akimbo in the doorway.

“ _Fuck_ , don’t you ever knock?” Mickey barked, gripping the back of Ian’s head as he hid in the crook of his neck, tittering like a juvenile delinquent getting caught after curfew. “Close the door, shithead.”

“Why, so you guys can bang the apartment into shambles? I bought snacks, fucker. Get your horny asses up, it’s movie time.”

“Mandy—”

“Mikhailo, we have sexy time rules for a reason. Besides, my headphones died on the way home, and I am not about to fall asleep to the orchestra of the humping gays. Get up.”

Ian’s unbridled laughter struck down his combative instincts, though his arousal hadn’t yet received the memo. When Mandy turned on her heel to set them up in the living room, Mickey made quick work of adjusting himself.

“Remember that shit I said earlier about Mandy being my best friend? Scrap the entire plan. I’m kicking that bitch out as soon as the sun comes up.”

“I heard that—you miserable ass muncher! No gummy worms for you,” Mandy said, her voice billowing through the apartment. “Keep it up, and I’ll eat all the licorice.”

“I think we’re in trouble,” Ian snickered, slipping out of Mickey’s handmade coat before rifling through his closet for a hanger to put it on.

\----------

If it were possible to fall harder for Mickey, the gentle way with which he treated his sister was the catalyst. They squabbled like siblings, bickering over who ate an unfair helping of the best treats, and who made the most mess, but Mickey chose his words with care, his movements even more so. They both brandished an aura that could scrap like the most fastidious of the Southside crew, sequined with the sobering ability to be congenial.

Mandy dozed in and out of a fragile sleep through the first film, passing out cold at the opening credits of the second. Her head in Ian’s lap, legs sprawled across her brother’s. Light snores had them both chuckling until it was time to wrap up their night. Mickey darted out of sight to grab a blanket for her, but by the time he returned, Ian had already carried her to bed.

“She has you wrapped around her finger now,” Mickey said, bunching up the throw blanket and tossing it onto the arm of the couch. “No way she didn’t wake up through your heroics. You are her official redheaded puppy. Best of luck with that.”

“Jealous?” Ian asked, closing the gap between them with impressive strides. “Need me to carry your old bones to bed too?”

“Old bones? I’m gonna make you eat your words, Red. You just wait.”

“And if I don’t want to wait?”

A lusty growl built at the base of Mickey’s throat. “You might be in luck, since I’m not in the mood to drive you home, witching hour and all.”

Ian glanced at his watch and his skin hummed, feverish with wicked excitement. “Are you inviting me to a sleep over?”

“Fuck you is what you were invited to. Your ass better not be a blanket hog—I hate being cold.”

Mickey disappeared into his bedroom, allowing Ian the uninterrupted leisure of absorbing his surroundings. Movie nights were a big deal if the size of the television and range of the sound system were any sign. The surrounding furniture was less lavish, comfortable, but nothing that matched the luxury of Mickey’s car or what he imagined his bank account to look like. He seemed to enjoy the simple things, and it eased Ian’s mind. He’d never had much more than the clothes on his back, so to delve into a world of opulence would be onerous. 

“Gallagher!”

“Coming, sorry!” Ian called back, gathering his breath. It was his turn to be all air and no lungs.

\----------

The symbols on Mickey’s fingers were all for show. He was a perfect gentleman. Ian hadn’t planned for a night away from home, aside from the bottle of pills he carried with him for emergencies. Mickey searched high and low for an unused toothbrush, ransacking his drawers for a fresh shirt and boxers to sleep in. He even turned the other way as Ian undressed, serving up some insecurities for Ian, but he figured it wasn’t intentional. Could it be that this was how it felt, to be more than a one-night stand?

“You okay?”

“Yeah—sorry. My mind is pretty loud tonight.”

Mickey pulled back the cotton duvet, dividing his mountain of pillows to accommodate two. “I’m all ears if you wanna talk.”

“You turned away.”

“When?”

“When I was getting dressed. Is it weird to be worried about that?”

Mickey sat at the edge of the bed, fretting with the hem of his boxers. His frown transformed into a slow, sleepy smile. “I wanted to look, if that helps.”

Ian let himself chuckle at his own consternation. “I sound crazy, don’t I?”

“You _sound_ like someone has treated you like shit. That pisses me off more than any anxiety ridden skeletons you struggle with, man. I want you to feel safe with me—it’s kinda what I need. You get what you give, right?”

Ian shifted on his feet, keen to be standing in front of Mickey without pants on, and also a little giddy that he was doing it in his underwear. “Do you—with me?”

“I mean, you fuckin’ terrify me.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s new. I can’t think straight. I worry about shit I never had to before.”

Ian kneeled between Mickey’s legs, resting his head above his knee. “Like what?”

Mickey’s fingers found their way into Ian’s tousled hair, with the slightest tug of his locks as he wriggled and scratched along his scalp. Ian was the calmest, yet most electrified he’d ever been. Mickey touched him in such deliberate ways, like he couldn’t risk mishandling him. Heat pooled in his belly, goosebumps raising each fiery hair on his arms.

“I worry that if we fuck tonight, it’ll be too soon, and you’ll leave feeling used or unsatisfied.”

Mickey speaking the possibility into existence illuminated him with a thousand tiny fireworks. “You didn’t care about that before?”

He shrugged, conscience-stricken. “Nah. Sex has never been—special or whatever. Spent most of my youth hating that part of myself, the rest of it trying to come to terms with who I am. It hasn’t left a lot of room for sweetness.” Mickey tugged the hair at the back of Ian’s head enough to meet his gaze. “I want it to be different with you.”

Ian shifted on the floor, positioning himself to pepper kisses from the lowest point on Mickey’s calf, to where his boxers met his thighs, revelling in the shivers his touch triggered. Mickey let his head fall back, caught between wanting to close his eyes to bathe in the sensation, and his desire to watch.

“Do you want me?” Ian asked, murmuring the words against warm skin. Mickey’s famished groans were indisputable.

“You know I do.” It was a plea more than a response, and it sent every nerve in Ian’s body into ecstasy driven chaos.

Ian’s fingers traveled across rippling muscles, a subconscious mission to prolong the inevitable. His hands found each soft spot on his stomach, lifting Mickey’s shirt to explore with his lips, savoring each shudder, each tight grip at the back of his head, and sweat prickled shoulders.

“Can I?” Ian whispered, kissing the length of Mickey’s shaft through his boxers, his tongue tracing the spot where his pre-cum had already soaked through. “I want to taste you.”

Mickey lifted himself up to slide his boxers down, Ian working them off and over his shoulder. He glanced up at Mickey for approval, gratified to see him lean back on his arms, his swollen cock glistening at the tip. He lapped at the smooth surface of his balls, delaying what he knew would send them both over the brink, veins pulsing with arousal as he sucked them into his mouth, releasing them with a quiet pop.

“That feels good. _Fuck_ , Ian.”

His scalp tingled at the pitch of Mickey’s admission, voice hoarse and wanting.

“Let me prep you,” Ian murmured against the silky smooth head of his cock, bracing his arms at Mickey’s sides to better suck him down.

Mickey sat up to grab a bottle of lube from his bedside drawer, running a hand over his own length to spread his pre-cum along his shaft. Slow, firm pumps while Ian insured his fingers were pleasure slick. Ian pushed against Mickey’s chest with an open hand, urging him to lean back again. He paused for a few beats to enjoy his vantage point, taking a great liking to the way Mickey touched himself. It crossed his mind that this is how Mickey must look, thinking of him late at night, and the image set his already exhilarated heart into full palpitations. He dragged the tip of his finger across puckering skin, soft and unhurried, as he wrapped his other hand overtop Mickey’s, helping him masturbate. His finger slid past the rim, and the way Mickey hissed, exposed Ian’s weakness in time management.

“You’re so tight,” Ian moaned, kissing the sensitive skin encapsulating his finger, slipping his tongue inside, working with his fingers to keep the sounds his lover was making alive and vibrant. “Tell me what you need.”

Mickey covered his face with his forearm, grinning against it. “You gotta decide for me. I don’t have any blood left in my head.”

Ian’s cheeks stung from blissful happiness, working another finger inside. “Think you can take me? I’m big.”

Mickey spread his legs further apart, grinding against his hand. “You want me to stroke your ego, or your cock?”

“Both options sound good to me.”

Mickey tittered, shuffling backward to make room. “Get on me, man. Let me worry about your gargantuan cock.”

Ian wasn’t sure what was better, seeing Mickey in his naked glory for the first time, or their flair for keeping it playful. There was safety in speaking their minds, trust. They were free.

He tore open the condom packet with fervor, eliciting another cheerful sound between them. Ian climbed onto the bed, following Mickey’s lead, laying back so those angry tattoos had plenty of room to grip and brace against his chest. Mickey straddled him, leaning forward to suck Ian’s bottom lip into his mouth, deepening their kiss to treat his tongue to the same delight. 

“Ride me,” Ian breathed, taking full control of Mickey’s hips. “Real slow.”

With one arm, Mickey balanced himself on Ian’s thigh, using his free hand to guide them together, sliding Ian into a tight heat he could’ve only dreamed about before their worlds collided. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, rotating his hips, allowing himself to stretch around Ian’s girth. It was enough to bring him to climax. He willed his body to hold it together, squeezing his own eyes closed to ground himself.

“You’re not gonna come for me yet,” Mickey ordered. “Hear me, Red? You’re gonna fuck me good and hard.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The headboard slammed into the wall with a loud crack so many times, it was a miracle the neighbors hadn’t called the cops. It took a moment to find their rhythm, but as soon as they did, it was a race to see who could make the other cry out the loudest. Mickey won, snapping his hips with devilish accuracy, seeming to find every pleasure point in Ian’s body, grinding at angles that spoiled him with hot tingles and shock waves. Ian pressed his face into the corner of his pillow, desperate to muffle his whines, as rivulets of sweat danced along Mickey’s stomach, F-U-C-K blurring before his eyes as he brought them both to the peak.

“ _Ian_ —”

“Me too,” he panted, quaking as his orgasm shot his senses through the roof. “ _Mickey_.”

\----------

Mandy wasn’t up all night having mind blowing sex with a glorious redhead, so her energy was limitless. Mickey was lightheaded from lack of sleep, fatigued muscles, and his sister’s dizzying shimmy across the kitchen, as she whipped up whatever concoction she stumbled upon scrolling through recipes online.

“You look like shit,” Mandy said, her sunny demeanor only amplifying his exhaustion.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be bright eyed, and bushy tailed. You gonna get me some coffee, or what?”

She mumbled something under her breath, sliding an empty mug across the counter in his direction. “And ruin your glow?”

“Shut up.”

“You fucker. Is he still asleep in there?” She asked, filling his mug halfway.

“Bitch, I like coffee with my cream. Fill it up.”

“Is that what you said to Ian last night?”

Mickey answered with a scoff, hiding behind a bitter sip of poorly made caffeine. “None of your beeswax. Get your own life.”

Her high-pitched laugh took him by surprise, and it was pure instinct to let some of her gaiety rub off on him. She gifted him with the grace of relative silence as he consumed enough liquid energy to keep him from hitting the tile floor, but not by much.

“Was it good?”

“You better be asking about the coffee, which by the way, tastes like donkey farts.”

Mandy gave him a bruise worthy kick to the shin, snatching his cup and filling it with juice instead. “I got a text from our neighbor this morning.”

“I’m going back to bed.”

“Said it sounded like a war zone on the other side of the wall. He thought we were being attacked,” she giggled, her voice raising in pitch the further away he got. “Does this mean Ian’s coming to Thanksgiving?”

Mickey shut the door to suppress her heckling, amused by Ian’s resilience. He was still fast asleep, curled up on his stomach with his arms strangling his favourite pillow. It was a sight he hoped to imprint in his mind forever.

He left the mug of juice on the bedside table, curious about Ian’s medication schedule, and if their encounter had fuddled it. Instead of shaking him awake, he tidied up the mess flooding his floor, tossing the supplies back in the bins to stow away. It wasn’t his intention to be loud enough to wake the sleeping giant, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt if the commotion caused him to stir.

“Mornin’ Mick,” Ian said, clearing his raspy throat. “Come back to bed.”

“Rise and shine, Cinderella. Can’t. It’s almost noon, man.”

The redhead was on his feet and across the room in record time, yanking Mickey backward onto the mattress. “I’m not done with you.”

“We need food—sustenance. Did you take your meds?”

The flush of excitement simmering in Ian’s eyes died in an instant. He scratched his neck, a downcast glare at no particular object.

“Ian?”

“Mind if I grab a shower before I go?”

Mickey stopped him from bolting from the bed with a firm grip. “Hold up for a minute. What happened just there—you pissed at me?”

“It’s fine, okay? I need to get home.”

“Let me drive you.”

“I’ll take the bus.”

Mickey tried to steel himself through a stabbing pang of remorse, one he didn’t quite understand. “What did I do?”

It could have been the desperation in his voice, or the way he stiffened when Ian made eye contact with him, but the redhead dropped his shoulders in defeat, letting out a staggering breath.

“Not your fault—nothing you did. It’s just um, I’m more than some bipolar dude.”

Mickey pushed himself up off the bed, magnetized hands reaching for Ian, brushing long red tendrils from his eyes. “Hey, I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. That isn’t how I see you at all.”

Tears built at the brim of Ian’s eyes, his jaw flexing against Mickey’s fingers, body stiff like the man he’d just spent the past several hours making love to, was no longer there. Mickey wanted to fix it, needed to, but his own fears escalated, and the words just weren’t forming. Though he clenched to Ian like a floatation device, he pulled away, slipping through the bedroom door. When he heard the front door click shut, he had to fight a river of salty tears threatening to break the dam he’d held up for so long.

“Mick?” There was no exuberance left, a cautious whisper. Mandy pushed the door open with hesitance, causing it to creak at the hinges. “Everything okay?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Did you have a fight? Ian looked upset.”

Was it a fight? It happened so fast, he wasn’t sure. What he perceived was that he stole the glimmer from Ian’s eyes in a matter of seconds, and it made his stomach twist with nausea.

“He wanted me to come back to bed. I asked him if he took his meds,” Mickey said, recounting the events, almost an attempt to sort through it. “He shut down—like, shut me right out.”

Mandy winced, flipping on the light switch before leaning against the same wall. “Have you guys talked about it before?”

“He told me he’s bipolar.”

“Yeah, but have you talked through it—what are his boundaries with it, Mick?”

“I don’t fucking know,” he snapped, tearing the sheets from his bed to keep his shaking hands busy. “I’m not a fucking therapist.”

“Don’t get like that. Now you’re the one shutting down,” Mandy said, fishing her phone from her pocket. “I’m calling Pappy, he’ll know what to do.”

“He’s a fuckin’ pediatrician—don’t. I’ll work it out myself.”

“He’s more than just a pediatrician, you of all people know that. Let me call him.”

Mickey balled up his sheets, crushing them under his arm. “If you involve our parents, I will never forgive you. Move.”

Mickey took his frustrations to the laundry room, the perfect miserable spot to simmer in his desolation. The washing machines rattled and clunked against the cement wall, blocking out the flurry of noise in his head. Not enough to eliminate Ian from his thoughts. He convinced himself to give the redhead time to cool off, despite wanting to blow up his phone with a stream of text messages, both angry and frantic.

“Love sucks,” he groaned.

\----------

Ian went through a tsunami of emotions on his bus ride home, embarrassed, angry, and hurt. When he played it all back in his head, he wanted to pummel himself for being so hasty, and letting his past creep into the only thing that gave him genuine happiness. He was the king of self sabotage, in a kingdom of circumstances pushing him toward it. Mickey didn’t know. It wasn’t fair of him to expect him to understand. His therapist shared with him, time and time again, how important it was to maintain open communication about his illness in any relationship, but there was never a good time to talk about being mentally ill. He got too lost in ecstasy and excitement to prioritize it. While Ian wasn’t _just_ bipolar, it was still a major piece of him.

“Nice of you to show up,” Mason drawled, slamming a sudsy cup against the drying rack in the sink. “I took the garbage out for you, _you’re welcome_.”

If anything would send him into a complete rage, it would be the unsolicited addition of his roommate’s passive aggression. “I’ll take it out next time.”

“You know, nobody enjoys living with someone lazy and inconsiderate. I texted you. Rude of you not to text back, but whatever. I’ll just take care of everything myself.”

“You know what, Mason—fuck off.”

“What did you just say?”

Ian towered over the ivy league hipster, a good foot and a half, furious breath ricocheting off the other man’s face. “I pay to live here, you prick. My rent is _always_ on time. I don’t have parties or play my music too loud and I fold your ridiculous towels just the way you like them, because God forbid you should have to wipe your damp hands on sideways fabric. I’m done. Done with your shitty attitude. You’re not my boyfriend, you’re not my parent. Lay off.”

He didn’t wait for a retort, storming away to his sliver of space to collapse in bed. His sheets were starchy, and they didn’t smell at all like Mickey, which only further agitated him. He stared up at his discoloured popcorn ceiling, an ache sizzling at his core. An hour ticked by, and another. He tossed and turned, cursing his rapid fire brain.

_**Still mad at me?** _

Mickey’s text chimed through before he had the wherewithal to shut his phone off. His adrenaline was still festering from their tiff, and his altercation with Mason, but somehow those words carried him straight back down. He was mad at himself, would be for the rest of his sorry life probably, but not Mickey. He adored Mickey—loved him, maybe.

_**I’m mad at myself, I guess, but not you. It’s complicated. I’m sorry I took off like that. Can I please call you to apologize?** _

Mickey’s response was immediate.

_**No need, man. I’m downstairs. Wanna go for a drive?** _

Ian’s heart galloped as he tore a clean outfit from the hangers, jamming a swipe of pit stick under his arms, followed by a generous spritz of cologne. His guitar strapped to his back, he typed like his fingers were liable to shatter at any moment.

_**Be right down.** _

Mickey sat on the hood of his car, leather jacket a stark contrast to his mussed hair. If Ian wasn’t hellbent on kissing him until his lips swelled, he would have taken a picture. The landscape behind him blurred like the cover of a magazine. He was the only thing Ian could see, enchanting.

“Eh, you call for an Uber?” Mickey asked, brows jumping sprightly. “Glad you brought your guitar, Gallagher. You owe me a song.”

Ian ran to him before he had the chance to hop off his car, bracing his arms at either side, locking him into a passionate kiss. Mickey leaned back on his elbow, pulling Ian closer, sparing no attention to passersby.

“I missed you, Mickey. A few hours and I was dying of sadness. I’m so sorry.”

He nodded through another kiss, softer this time. “I know. It’s all good—I’m here.”

“Let me make it up to you, okay?”

Mickey placed a kiss between his eyes, rolling out from under him, jogging to the passenger side to open the door. “Oh, you’ll make it up to me alright. Get in.”

“Where are we going?”

“Ian Gallagher, get in the damn car,” he said, the engine roaring to life. He blasted the horn to make his point. “Hurry, or I’ll make your ass run the entire way.”

If he was anyone’s puppy, he wasn’t Mandy’s, that much was incontrovertible.

“By the way,” Mickey started, leaning across to buckle Ian's seatbelt, “I missed you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Mickey reached out to his parents for advice? Speaking of which, they look forward to meeting you all in the next chapter. Gobble gobble.


	10. If You Jump, I Jump.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey brings Ian further into his world. Ian takes a leap of faith.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've split this chapter into two parts, so meeting the parents will be in the next one. It got lengthy. I wasn't sure if it would be too much in one go. The next update will arrive in the coming days. I hope you enjoy reading this half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Unanswered questions will be resolved over time, so thank you for your patience, and as always, your kind comments.

Tension crept into Mickey’s shoulders each time he opened up about his parents to someone new. Even in his workplace, where he spent most of his time, his family life was a mystery to his colleagues. He avoided the topic at all costs, despite being surrounded by his creature comforts and some of the most non-judgmental people he’d ever met. It had little to do with his adoptive family. His parents were great. Together they saved his life in ways even he couldn’t comprehend, and he cared for them with an unbreakable bond.

It was hair-raising for him to revisit why they came to be in his life to begin with. If he stayed busy enough, he sometimes forgot just how bad it all was until something brought it all crashing back down. He held guilt for being rescued when the rest of his siblings and friends suffered at the hands of circumstances they didn’t choose.

Terry’s manipulation still had him convinced he betrayed them all.

One lesson his adoptive family instilled in him, a genuine treasure in his adult life, was how to turn impulsive behavior into purposeful spontaneity. He was twenty shades of fucked up when they took him in, and his instinct to cry out for help through self destruction was almost impenetrable. They were steadfast in their quest to offer him healing, loyal to a degree life had taught him only existed within the Milkovich clan. What he realized was that loyalty and fear were opposing forces. They presented similarly, but one cultivated trust, the other distress. He experienced both and counted his lucky horseshoes that his parents found him before the abuse slithered deeper into his mind.

“Where are we _going_?” Ian asked for the hundredth time since Mickey pulled up outside his building. “We’ve been driving for an hour.”

Warmth stirred in his belly at the childlike grin on Ian’s face.

“Would you quit asking? I’m trying to surprise you over here.”

The redhead gave a facetious gripe, a precious, dramatic groan followed by the most adorable foot stomp from a seated position he’d ever witnessed.

“I suck at surprises, Mick. I used to hunt down all our Christmas presents. Fiona had to padlock the attic.”

“Cool your jets, Inspector Gadget. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Ian continued to prod, anticipating their adventure. Mickey was terrible with surprises too. He always wound up spoiling the gifts he purchased for Mandy out of sheer excitement.

They pulled into a hotel parking lot, and he had to restrain his mirth at the gigantic child beside him, looking like they’d just won tickets to the carnival. 

“This isn’t it,” Mickey said, and Ian’s eyes widened at the proclamation.

“Are we staying here tonight?”

“Yes.”

“That’s amazing! Wait—this isn’t the surprise?”

It wasn’t. It was a place to lay their heads until sunrise, when the genuine revelation could unfold. “Let’s check in, man. Guess I gotta take you shopping soon, huh?”

“ _Shopping_? Okay—what’s going on? I’m pretty sure I’ve done the opposite of deserving _any_ of this.”

Mickey dug his hand beside Ian’s seat, releasing the belt still fastened across his chest. “That’s why we’re here.”

Ian’s jutted out his chin, accentuating his chiseled face. “You’re gonna murder me, aren’t you?”

He hopped out of the driver’s seat, letting loose some glee bubbling in his diaphragm. When he opened Ian’s door, it replaced the confusion on the redhead’s face with something much more contented.

“Come on, Ian. If I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t be this sloppy.”

He responded with a leg buckling kiss. Mickey could get used to those reactions. Kissing wasn’t something he took part in, to any great extent, before Ian. He would never admit it, but there was something irresistible about being wrapped in arms as strong as Ian’s, a taller man squeezing him close to his chest as if letting go would send them sailing into the unknown. There was a time in his life where he wrote off the possibility of intimacy altogether. He thought maybe he didn’t even like it.

“You don’t have to take me shopping—I cashed that cheque the other day. I now have five thousand and fifty-two dollars to my name, thanks to you.”

“Save it, man. I dragged you out here, I can cover the expenses.”

Ian took a step back, looping his arm with Mickey’s, guiding them to the hotel. “Does this mean I have a sugar daddy?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Hey, there’s no shame in it. I’m a strapping lad, a half decent lay—it only makes sense you’d wanna invest,” Ian tittered. “You’re putting me on layaway, right?”

“You’re lucky I’m so into you. Should’ve left your pale ass on the side of the freeway.”

“Mom, Dad— _this_ is my sugar baby. Got him on sale, being that he’s a soulless redhead and all.”

Without a shred of venom, Mickey gave him a healthy shove. “You got it all wrong, man.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Well, my parents are gay for a start.”

Mickey grabbed their key cards from the front desk, handing one to Ian. On the elevator ride up to their room, Ian was ninety percent fidget, ten percent freckles. It was in his nature not to pry, but for the sake of candor and vulnerability, he diverted from his comfort zone.

“You wanna tell me why you’re twitching like you’ve got spiders in your pants?”

Ian’s expression softened, grabbing both of Mickey’s hands before he opened the door. “Mandy already told me. I mean—I might’ve missed the part where you have two dads, but she mentioned it. The other stuff distracted me.”

“What other stuff?”

If it was possible for Ian to lose colour, it was happening at a sped up rate. “Um, she may have mentioned something about you getting hurt.”

“Course she did.”

“Are you mad?”

If he were, he wouldn’t dream of projecting his turmoil onto Ian before they had the chance to fix what was already fragile between them. He supposed he had his therapists to thank for that. Years back, he might’ve let that initial shock take the reins. The news gave him a flash of something resembling anger, but he directed it at his loose lipped sibling, and deep down, he understood that Mandy did nothing to harm him on purpose. She must’ve seen the same thing in Ian that Mickey did.

“Nah, man, I’m good. Let’s get out of the hallway before we give someone the wrong idea.”

\----------

They talked for hours.

Then they fucked the furniture into decimation.

It was almost a shame because the accommodation was tasteful, stacked to the brim with amenities. They’d notice if their attraction didn’t bury them in each other the second they were alone. When room service knocked at the door, it was the only justification they had to come up for air. Their tattered souls poured together like nectar, shaking emotions to the surface.

“Think we’re moving too fast?” Mickey asked.

That very question nagged at Ian from the beginning. He was an optimist, but he wasn’t stupid. “I think so. But I don’t know if I could’ve done it any other way with you.”

“Thought we’d be able to survive, _at least_ until your graduation. Turns out I’m a weak ass bitch.”

“It’s not all on you, Mick. I’ve been jerking myself raw in the shower for weeks.”

Mickey spewed a mouthful of beer all over the bedspread, coughing between breathless fits of laughter. “You have no filter, man.”

“Oh, give me a break. If you tell me you haven’t been, you’re a liar.”

The tip of Mickey’s thumb went white between his teeth, those expressive eyebrows contemplating just how much he would expose. “What gives you that idea?”

“Well, I have eyes, for a start.”

His tattooed hands came up to shield his face, raised cheeks puffing up at either side. “You are _full_ of yourself, Gallagher.”

“Am I?”

“You are,” Mickey said, affirming the sentiment against Ian’s lips. “You’re so fucking hot, it’s killing me.”

“ _Killing you_?”

“Mhm.”

Ian snatched the half empty bottle of beer from his hand, tipping his head back to guzzle the rest, letting out an obnoxious belch. “How ‘bout now?”

“There is nothing you could do to make me stop wanting you.”

The tone of his voice was shipwreck heavy. He’d never known how willing he was to sink to the bottom of the ocean until Mickey gazed into him like they were the only two left on the planet.

“Gonna tell me the surprise yet?” Ian asked, balancing the empty beer bottle on the bedside table before wrestling Mickey back into the sheets.

“Nope. We need sleep, and _you_ need to stop touching me like that.”

Ian groped the warm flesh at Mickey’s waist, one hand slipping between his thighs. “One more time before bed?”

“Fine—but I need my beauty sleep. Nut up and shut up, got it?”

“You’re the worst,” Ian groaned, laughter mixing between their lips.

\----------

The introduction to adrenaline rousing pursuits was an undeniable upside to having wealthy, well connected parents. Mickey grappled with dissociation after his accident. He still considered it that—an accident. Only because there were still pieces of him that felt he miscalculated, that he made a mistake. Nobody could tell him otherwise for years. Instead, they tried to sway his dwindling self esteem with stimulating activities and encouragement to follow his creative ambitions.

Almost nine hundred jumps, and Mickey had more than earned his certification as a skydiving instructor. The numbness that engulfed him fell away a little more each time. He’d gone on many tandem jumps, more than he could count, helping others experience the same rush that jolted life back into his body. Never had he taken someone he treasured, the way he was beginning to with Ian.

Mandy jumped a grand total of one nerve rattling time. Mickey jumped solo alongside her to capture the moment. There was no way the universe would let two Milkoviches jump out of a plane without dire consequence, so she strapped herself to another instructor for superstition’s sake. She swore on all things she cherished that she’d never do it again, and although it was a cool memory, he didn’t protest. Something about his little sister falling through the sky without his control was unsettling on a deeper level than he would ever share with her.

“Hey Mick?”

“What’s up, man?”

Ian twisted his body to gawk out the rear window, pulling at his seatbelt to do it. “That sign had the word skydiving on it.”

“Yup.”

“ _Skydiving_ , Mick.”

“I know.”

With an axiomatic pause, Ian turned back around to brace himself on the dashboard. “Are we watching planes land again?”

“Nope,” Mickey said, nodding at a familiar car heading in the other direction. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

“I’m afraid of heights.”

“That’s fine.”

“Like—I have to crawl on my hands and knees across a suspension bridge, until someone rescues me, afraid. Heavily medicated on my flight to Los Angeles, afraid.”

He chuckled to himself, reaching for one of Ian’s sweat sticky hands. “There’s a thing about fear, Gallagher—”

“Mickey, I’m going to stop you right there. I can’t even handle an apartment past the third floor.”

They pulled into a parking stall with a sign labelled _Trick Mick_ , decorated with little dashes for each descent from the sky. Ian fixated on the sign with wide eyes.

“Wait—you have your own parking spot.”

“You doin’ alright, Red? You’re looking a little transparent.”

Ian whipped his door open, scrambling out of the car to catch his breath. Mickey watched from the driver’s seat, committing to memory the way Ian’s athletic body looked, bent over to brace his knees. After many minutes, Ian turned to face him, dropping back into his seat with a thud.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can.”

“What if the parachute doesn’t open?”

“We die.”

“ _Oh-my-fucking-god_ ,” Ian wheezed, face buried in lanky fingers. “I think I can’t feel my feet.”

“You think?”

“Don’t know. I don’t have a will—is that something I should have? I thought about it when I was sick, but never got around to it. Now I’m wondering if—”

“Ian—” Mickey interrupted, the redhead gazing at him like a baby deer lost in a meadow. He melted in those eyes every time. “You think I’d ever let anything bad happen to you?”

\----------

Ian had done some stupid shit in the name of love, but bounding from a plane at ten thousand feet in the air must land him in shameful pits of attraction. The building was bustling with people of all walks of life, some with their chests puffed out and their shoulders back, confident in their undertakings, others reflecting much of what was festering in his own stomach.

Most of them recognized Mickey the minute he arrived, greeting them with jovial grins.

“Dude, about time you graced us with your presence.”

In front of them stood a bag of muscle, neck to what Ian could only imagine would be his toes, covered in tattoos. He was a dog hair shorter, built like a military action figure, and it took Ian a solid minute to let the jealousy fade enough to acknowledge him as a fellow human.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s only been what—a week?” Mickey retorted, sending lazy waves to the fresh faces taking inventory of him for the first time since they walked through the door. “Ian—this is Chase. He’s the ballsiest fuck of us all.”

“Hardly,” Chase said, shaking Ian’s hand with a formidable grip. “Nice to meet you, buddy. First jump?”

“That obvious, huh?” Ian shrugged, his fear encapsulating him once again.

“It’s all good to be full of fire ants the first few times—I’ve been jumping for years and I still get nervous every once in a while.”

The sentiment had not comforted Ian, and judging by Mickey’s quick intervention, he could sense it.

“Nah, I’ll have him back here in no time,” Mickey said, squeezing his shoulder. “They make ‘em tough on the Southside.”

“Oh no shit, you’re from Mick’s hometown?”

“Born and raised.”

Chase saluted a group of what looked to be groomsmen, as they all but burst through the door, whooping and hollering. “I’ve gotta get these dudes saddled up. It was awesome to meet someone from Mick’s neck of the woods. Let’s grab beers soon, yeah?”

Ian watched the exultant group of men gab at Chase as if he’d grown an extra ear for each one of them, distracted by a vigorous nudge, Mickey’s brows dancing in excitement all over his forehead.

“You wanna back out?” Mickey asked, his tongue tucked at the corner of his mouth, seducing him despite his icy panic.

“Yes.”

“Are you gonna?”

Well, of course he wasn’t going to. Not after meeting Mickey’s _too good looking for his own health_ friend, and not after realizing that this was something Mickey enjoyed enough to have his own parking spot.

“You’re the one who’s going to owe _me_ , when this is all over Milkovich.”

“We’ll see how you feel when our feet touch the ground, man.”

\----------

Mickey set Ian up with another instructor, who gave him and a few other newbies the lowdown on safety protocols, and what to expect their first time. He observed Ian from the office window, until their short instructional video began, using the time to prep their equipment, and check all his gear.

“Field trip?” a familiar voice chimed, followed by a gentle headbutt to the shoulder. “Thought I was the only ginger in your life.”

“Rachel, hey. Didn’t think you’d be out here today—”

“Don’t sweat it, Teach. Mum’s the word,” Rachel said, wiggling into her jumpsuit. “Guess he _is_ super cute. Do all the perfect boys have to be gay?”

Mickey tried to stop himself from wincing, conflicted about her blasé demeanor.

“You still there, Captain?” Rachel teased, snapping her fingers under his nose. “I know you, Mickey. For you to bring him around, he must be something special.”

“I never date my students.”

“Get real. He’s more than just a student, and you know it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was teaching _me_ prosthetics by this time next year. Your boy has talent.”

“This doesn’t freak you out?”

“What? No. Now if you were dating a _woman_ , I’d question your mental acuity. He’s not a kid, Mick. This kind of thing happens. You can’t help who you want or whatever. You wouldn’t be the first from our school to date a graduate.”

“Doesn’t make it any better.”

“Ian is a consenting adult, and a mighty handsome one at that. It’s rough trying to meet people in our industry. He seems like a good egg. Enjoy your time together,” Rachel said, lacing up her shoes. “I’m not gonna grade him any easier, though. His final better be lit.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Mickey replied, the tension in his body loosening up again. “Be safe up there.”

The tiny redhead flung herself out of the office door, ponytail whipping the air behind her. The first safety film was rolling to an end, enough time for Mickey to grab a cigarette and collect his thoughts. Rachel showing up wasn’t something the day prepared him for, but the interaction ran better than he would have expected. She had always been veracious, never hesitating to tell him the truth, even when he didn’t want to hear it. He trusted her insight. Besides, there would never be another opportunity for him to repeat his behavior. The universe etched Ian Gallagher all over any future he saw for himself.

\----------

Ian understood that he needed to focus, for self-preservation if nothing else, but he couldn’t help but fret about flinging himself from an aircraft, attached to a man he wanted to impress, but might in every literal sense, pee on out of unadulterated terror.

Twenty minutes ticked by on a clock above the projector screen. A head of jet black hair filled his peripheral, Mickey’s scent invigorating him as he rested his chin against Ian’s shoulder.

“Time to fly, Gallagher. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he groaned, the muscle in his chest pulsing so fast he almost couldn’t endure it anymore. “I cannot _believe_ you’re making me do this.”

Mickey tossed a skydiving suit in his lap, giving an affirming squeeze to both shoulders. “If you wanna back out, say the word, man. I won’t make you do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“Would you be mad if I said I couldn’t do this?”

“Fuck no. Why would I be mad?”

He ruminated on such a complicated question, with such a limited window of time to respond.

“Ian—we can stop. I don’t want you to—”

“Let’s do it.”

Mickey pulled him to his feet, shaking out the jumpsuit between them. “You sure?”

“Yeah, but if we survive this,” Ian whispered, earning a generous eye roll from his lover. “I get to drive your car.”

He grinned with every pearly white on display. “Deal. We gonna break in the back seat if you decide you liked the experience?”

Ian snatched the suit from his hands, bending down to slip his socked feet through the cuffs. “Let’s just hope my cock doesn’t fly off up there.”

Mickey snickered, grabbing them each a softshell helmet before zipping up Ian’s jumpsuit, placing a soft kiss on his lips that had the room moving in slow motion. He had a habit of doing that, making everything around them fade. It was the most beautiful affliction. Ian was certain he wouldn’t be willing to let this one go, no matter what hurdles they would face. Mickey was his twin flame, and they would crackle side by side, even if it meant taking a plunge that made every nerve beneath his skin swish.

The walk to the aircraft was arduous, the thumping in his chest making a racket through his body, all the way to his thumbs. Ian wiped his damp palms against spandex until Mickey reached for his hand to steady him. He figured the propeller spinning in a blur at the nose of the plane must be loud, if not for the blood rushing in his ears. He began counting his steps, a sudden appreciation for the earth beneath his feet. This was it. He woke up in his instructors’ bed, and without much warning, he was going to make the jump of his lifetime.

“Alright, Red. Any last words?”

“Fuck you,” Ian chortled, sliding onto the cold metal bench fixed to the interior of the plane. “You’re a terrible influence on me.”

Mickey threw his head back, guttural laughs making everyone around them smile. “I’m not sorry.”

“Are you two together?” a nervous brunette shouted, wringing her hands in her lap as her instructor fastened them into one unit from behind. “I don’t mean to be nosey—it’s just that you make a very handsome couple.”

Ian glanced at Mickey, not knowing what to say. “Uh, are we— _a couple_?”

Blue eyes flitted across the surface of Ian’s face, heat prickling along his cheeks at the lengthy gaze. Mickey sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. “Course we are.”

Ian turned back around to the anxious girl with a nod. She beamed at them both before tipping her head back to listen to her instructor. The exchange distracted Ian long enough that the plane had already taken off from the ground by the time he peered out of tiny, clouded windows.

Chilly air blasted away the mugginess of the cabin, as the first pair slid open the door. A vivid blue sky awaited them at the other side.

“Six thousand feet, Gallagher. Time to saddle up,” Mickey called out, standing up in the narrow aisle to attach them to each other, clip by clip. “You’re a tall motherfucker.”

That might be true, but he felt about a million inches shorter in that moment, his torso shivering enough that the rest of his limbs followed.

The pilot waved his hand. “Eight thousand—almost there!”

Ian pressed his breeze-stiff fingers to his eyes, shivers transforming into full shakes. “Holy _fuck_. Shit.”

Mickey shuffled them both backward toward the bench, tight straps and trusty equipment joining them together. He sat on Mickey’s lap, trying to remember if he’d always been a detached head, or if he was just _that_ nervous.

“I got you, Gallagher. You hear me?”

“Jesus Mick, what if something breaks—like what if the straps give out? What should I do?”

“The straps are ironclad. I promise that won’t happen.”

“If it does?”

“ _If it does_ , there’s no amount of sky that can keep us apart, man. I’ll get you to the ground in one piece.”

“I’m so fucking scared,” Ian confessed, dropping his head back, nuzzling into the crook of Mickey’s neck. “This is so wild.”

“You let me do all the work, okay? You just enjoy the view.”

The pilot called out once more above the rumbling aircraft, cheeks high on his face, eyes squinting with his smile. “All systems go. You’re free to fly.”

“Can we go last?” Ian asked, no longer fearful of sounding like a coward. “I’d feel better watching everyone else go first.”

Mickey clasped his hands around Ian’s. “You got it. Gives me a little more time to hold you.”

Somehow, Mickey’s words nestled into him like a sip of melted chocolate, and the panic careening inside him settled to a low simmer, the heat between them washing away the biting, high altitude air.

The last pair leapt from the ledge, a shriek ringing out as the white knuckled newbie disappeared from sight. Mickey massaged the thickest part of Ian’s thighs, waiting for him to make the call. The pilot paid them no mind, absorbing the surrounding energy in stillness.

“Fuck it, let’s go,” Ian said, mindful of how close Mickey’s ear was to his mouth. “My life is in your hands, Milkovich.”

“Right where it belongs,” Mickey retorted, walking them to the open door.

Ian closed his eyes—drum beats in his throat as the roar of the plane attenuated against the vast sky, waiting to encompass them. Mickey gripped the frame of the exit point, kissing him twice, just behind his ear. His mouth went dry, shallow breaths keeping him grounded.

“Alright, man. I want you hold your harness down low and tilt your head back for me.”

 _Fuck_.

“I’m going to count us down from three, okay?”

 _Oh shit_.

“One—”

Hard swallow.

“Two—”

Deep breath.

“Three—”

Mickey launched them into a freefall, the pit of his stomach swirling like the time Fiona drove them over a bump on the train tracks so fast, they dropped off on the other side. The pressure of the surrounding air whistled in his ears as they plunged further and further, Mickey’s triumphant laughter igniting a cacophony of the happiest noises he’d ever heard. Their bodies gave a quick jerk as Mickey’s parachute deployed into a bright orange burst above them, hovering them in peaceful silence.

He opened his eyes to a patchwork quilt of land, thousands of feet below them. It was nothing short of angelic.

“This is unbelievable,” Ian said after a moment, a mere whisper between them. “It’s paradise up here. I mean, I can hear you _breathing_ , it’s so quiet. Wow. This is all so— _wow_!”

Mickey guided them through the air, pulling at the toggles gripped in each hand to lead them where they needed to go. Ian wanted to rewind it all and start again.

“Not as bad as you expected?”

“Not even close. We’re floating, Mick. There’s nothing up here. _Just us_. The entire world is buzzing down there, and we’re just—floating above it all.”

“Trust me now, Gallagher?”

Ian let his head drop forward, chuckling at the epiphany. “You tossed me out of a plane to prove your loyalty?”

“No,” Mickey said, wrapping his legs around Ian’s at the ankles. “I tossed you out of a plane to show you I’ve got your back, that I’ll protect you no matter what. I want you to know that you never have to hide yourself from me. All I see is you, Ian. None of the other shit matters until you tell me it does.”

“I’m never gonna be able to stop falling for you now,” Ian murmured, wishing he could kiss Mickey until they went dizzy in the sky.

“Good. _Don’t_.”

“What happens now?”

“Our feet touch solid ground, and you tell me I’m the coolest boyfriend you’ve ever had.”


	11. Freefall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is a nine letter word, Gallavich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy, see you all soon! Thank you endlessly for your comments and support. Stay safe, my friends.

Ian had to tear himself away from the trance he was in, so Mickey had the chance to remind him to lift his legs upon landing, taking full control so they wouldn’t tumble into the dirt. It was a landing as smooth as he imagined any descent from the sky to be, though he guessed having a professional hooked to his back was a bonus.

Ian’s heart had experienced every cardiac rhythm under the sun since they arrived, only coming back down to his resting rate when Mickey unfastened their gear, allowing him to glance up at the sky they just conquered, to catch his breath. Chatter rose around him, as Mickey’s skydiving friends and acquaintances gathered to welcome his safe arrival, but he was too busy replaying it in his head. Everything happened so fast he couldn’t register it, drunk on altitude and lust.

“You okay, Red?”

“Better than okay. That was— _holy shit_.”

“I’ve seen that expression before!” Chase bellowed, clapping his hands. “Looks like we might need to get your boy a license of his own.”

Mickey followed suit, glancing heavenward with a smirk. “Whaddya say, Gallagher?”

Ian was still recounting the way his ears popped in freefall, and how with his eyes closed, it seemed like he was falling two hundred feet a second, belly to earth, Mickey riding gravity behind him like it was his personal playground.

“I closed my eyes. Can we go up again so I can keep them open this time?”

Chase yanked him in for an unexpected side hug, patting him on the back. “Welcome to the crew, dude. It only gets better from here. Wait ‘till you see the insane shit Mick does up there.”

When he jogged back to the hangar to leave them to their newfound glow, Mickey shuffled forward, gear dangling on his hip in the most delicious way. “I knew you could do it.”

Ian tore his eyes from the sky, blinking at the man who went from tough as nails and almost unapproachable, to gentle in a matter of weeks. “You always this soft, Milkovich?”

“Fuck off,” he snorted, pulling Ian close.

“I understand why birds sing, Mick.”

“Now who’s the soft one?”

“I’m serious. Being up there like that—I mean, how do you even describe it?”

Mickey bunched up his gear, dropping it in Ian’s hands. “Can’t. Gotta be there to experience it. Hence why I dragged your freckled ass out here.”

They wandered back together, Mickey grinning to himself and Ian enjoying it too much to say anything. Not only did Ian have a boyfriend, but his boyfriend made his entire body surrender and his mind expand to possibilities he never considered. It was more than infatuation. Ian was ready to learn every inch of Mickey. Prepared to study him like an open book, return every butterfly flutter Mickey had given him. Fall from the sky with him, relinquishing their need to navigate the world solo.

“Hey Mick?”

“Hm?”

“I’m so glad we met.”

\----------

Mickey was a skydiver. Floating on air was what he did. Somehow, Ian brought the sensation to another level. He was more than glad they met, but he couldn’t plan a sentence powerful enough to depict it. Ian slammed into his life and made him more comfortable, and more afraid than he’d ever been. Only the fear disaffiliated from the archaic misery he grew up in. It was a fear of losing something so tangible that made him so damn excited about infinitesimal moments. A sip from the same cup, a long drag from the same cigarette.

Mickey urged Ian to assimilate with the crew while he put his gear away, disappearing into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face before rejoining him.

“Alright, Red—she’s all yours.”

His green eyes danced when Mickey turned over his hand to drop car keys onto his palm. “Ha! You remembered!”

“How could I forget? I’ve been thinking of all the ways I must punish you if you dent her up.”

The group chuckled, exchanging pleasantries before splitting up to let them get on with their day. Ian seemed to fit into his life with such ease.

“Look—I have to fly out to Chicago in a few hours.”

“Oh, right! Thanksgiving with your family,” Ian nodded, chewing at his bottom lip. “Is it stupid that I miss you already?”

A tropical forest bloomed in his chest. “You could come with me.”

Keys jingled as Ian fussed with them between his fingers. Their pace slowed as they approached his ride, Mickey’s pulse thumping in his throat. The redhead leaned against the hood, dragging his foot to build up a small mountain of dirt.

“You want me to meet your parents?”

He hadn’t ascertained whether the goal was for Ian to meet his family, or if he couldn’t fathom being away from him for more than a few hours at a time. It was an intricate balance that he hadn’t gained proper footing in. It was his first entanglement with a person he wanted to touch knees with any time they sat together. His first time smiling at dirty sneakers scuffing his boots while they walked. 

“I want my parents to meet you,” Mickey said, reaching for the hem of Ian’s shirt to close the distance. “It’s cool if it’s too soon for you. I can Facetime you before bed, you can sing me to sleep.”

Ian tilted his head, pulling out his phone to rattle off a series of text messages. “Which flight is yours? I want to make sure we’re on the same one.”

He huffed out a tight breath of relief. “Mandy already bought you a ticket.”

“No way!”

“Yeah—I think she might like you more than I do.”

“As if. You’ve been into me since you barked at me outside the school.”

Mickey hid the grin threatening to split his face, sliding into the passenger seat. “Get your cocky ass in here so we can go buy some decent threads.”

\----------

The BMW vibrated with power beneath him, taking corners with exhilarating speed on the open road. Mickey seemed content with his driving skills, more focused on rubbing the tips of his fingers against every sensitive spot on Ian’s body he could reach. He shifted in place, blood rushing between his legs as Mickey’s hand alternated from tight squeezes to feather soft touches.

“I’m hard, Mick.”

“I can see that.”

He spoke it into existence as if they were discussing the weather, Mickey’s glance shifting from the side of Ian’s face, to any potential audience they might have as they approached the congested city. His palm pressed close enough to Ian’s bulge that it kept the blood from his brain, spreading his legs further apart to encourage a more frictional touch.

Mickey didn’t give him what he wanted right away, teasing him until he was close to begging for it.

“Touch me,” Ian murmured, placing one hand behind Mickey’s head, the other on the steering wheel.

“Is that what you want?”

“Fuck yes.”

Mickey’s fingers rubbed against every surrounding area, causing Ian to whimper. He let his eyes dart from the road long enough to see the arousal in Mickey’s eyes. He was teasing himself just as much.

“Want me to suck your cock?”

“While I’m driving?” Ian asked, heat bubbling up in his lap. “What if someone sees?”

“I tinted the windows for a reason.”

“The windshield isn’t. Oh _fuck_ , that feels good,” Ian whispered, as Mickey palmed him with more deliberate contact. “I won’t last very long if you keep that up.”

“Probably for the best, not looking to get arrested today,” Mickey tittered, unzipping Ian’s pants. “You have no idea how bad I wanna fuck you right now.”

Ian’s senses convulsed. “Took you for a gold star bottom.”

“Oh, I am—but I’d bend you over in a heartbeat.”

Mickey sucked him down, inch by inch, pulling back up to lick the sensitive ridge of his tip. He wasn’t wasting any time, bobbing his head with fervor, treating his fingers as a cock ring, making up the space his lips couldn’t reach. Ian laced his fingers through dark hair, willing himself not to look down.

“You’d fuck me?” Ian asked, panting each word as the suction of Mickey’s mouth made his scalp tingle. “That’s so hot.”

“Mm.”

Mickey sucked kisses along the vein on his shaft, undoing his seatbelt to suck him down further. Ian tapped his back, gripping his shoulder to pull him off.

“Put your seatbelt back on,” Ian ordered, dropping a hand from the steering wheel to keep up the momentum, pressing his thumb along the top of his cock while Mickey deliberated.

“Can’t gag on it, if I can’t reach,” he said, quirking his brow as Ian tried to untangle pleasure from responsibility. Mickey almost had him convinced.

“Buckle up, or no more cock.”

“Kill joy,” Mickey chuckled, obliging with a dramatic huff, clicking his belt into place. “Move your hand, fucker.”

Mickey was back on him, and more determined than ever. He wanted to pull the car over so he could drag the sensation out a little longer, Mickey’s mouth delivering more satisfaction than he bargained for, but Ian saw their privacy narrowing. The cramped highway approached; lanes packed with traffic in a slow crawl.

“Hurry, Mick. We’re about to have spectators.”

“ _Me_ hurry? It’s your load that needs to blow, man,” he laughed, opening his throat to take him deeper.

The multicoloured blurs ahead were becoming distinguishable vehicles, Mickey’s moans against his cock sending his lower half into violent jolts. “Don’t stop. _Don’t stop_.”

“I can taste it—fill my throat with come.”

Every noise around him muffled against the pressure, the heat. Hungry, wet sounds and deep moans daring him to take his hands off the wheel long enough to hold the back of Mickey’s head while he let go.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey. I’m almost there.”

“Mm—love when you say my name.”

Ian could no longer regulate his breathing, ragged huffs becoming uncontrollable groans, a wave of pleasure building below his navel, cock twitching in preparation against Mickey’s lips. Ian cried out, spilling into his mouth in bursts, Mickey swallowing more than once, taking the time to lick him clean.

He blinked the erotic blur from his eyes, careening back to reality. “You gotta sit up— _Mick_!”

Mickey grinned as Ian scrambled to put himself away, wiping the corners of his mouth as they pulled up next to an SUV with an enthusiastic driver, banging on his steering wheel to heavy metal music. Just as Ian zipped his pants, the man glanced over with a friendly wave. Mickey gave a lazy salute, swiping a hand through his messy hair. The stranger seemed none the wiser, missing the obvious boner testing the strength of Mickey’s jeans.

“Where do you like to buy your clothes, man?” Mickey asked, eliciting a sharp eruption of laughter.

“You want to talk about shopping preferences right now?”

“I _want_ you to get on my lap and ride me, but they limited our options to getting the blood back to my head. Mandy is nuts about showing up at the airport early, so we gotta hustle.”

“It’s a miracle I didn’t crash your car.”

“That good, huh?”

Ian wrapped his hand around Mickey’s. “ _Oh yeah_. I hope I didn’t make a mess on your seat.”

Mickey scoffed, rolling down the windows to flush out the aroma of sex. “You think I’d let you fuck up the leather? Not a drop.”

“Where have you been all my life?”

\----------

As with everything else involving Mickey, shopping was an escapade. Among finding a few outfits without SFX stains on them, they resorted to making out in the change room until a skittish employee urged them to finish up. They snickered under their breath, beads of sweat mingling as their foreheads balanced against the other, calculating how much longer they could get away with their misdeeds. They cleared the room only to dive headfirst into a long line up outside the door, some giggling in support, others irked by their obvious arousal. Ian felt like a teenager again, only without all the burden, and with a new lease for life.

If not for the reality of getting down in public, the perpetual vibrations of Mickey’s phone yanked them from their reverie. Mandy met their blunder in losing track of time with wrath, one very annoyed sibling, pacing the apartment waiting for them. As if the department store drenched them in a bucket of ice water, they were hauling ass to the parking lot, bags of clothes in tow.

Ian made a point of straightening himself out while Mickey ran upstairs to collect his sibling, stepping out of the car to double check for any potential evidence of their earlier misdemeanor. Mickey was right, not a shred of mess graced his seat, unless you held a black light to the crime scene, and even then.

Mandy eyed them suspiciously as she crammed her bags into the trunk. He was diligent in putting himself back together, but it didn’t prevent him from smoothing himself over once more for good luck.

“No suitcase?” Ian asked, waving over his shoulder to acknowledge Mandy while watching Mickey for a response.

“Don’t need one.”

“Mickey is the golden child of the family—his bedroom remains untouched by everyone but the maid,” Mandy said, sporting an exaggerated accent as she spoke. “Everything he needs is waiting for him there. His precious ass doesn’t have to pack.”

“Bitch, cry me a river. They gave you an entire cabana to yourself—try sneaking your friends into the main house. I ain’t the spoiled one.”

In all their conversations, Ian had never asked for details about their parents. He figured a Northside address sat them somewhere in the middle class, but the way the siblings spoke made them sound loaded.

“ _My cabana_ was the only reason _you_ got your dick sucked twice a week by that perverted pool cleaning guy. Pappy would have murdered him in cold blood if he knew you two were messing around.”

Mickey whipped around in his seat. “Are you serious right now? Ian is sitting _right here_.”

Ian let the words unravel in his head, backing the car out of the parkade and onto the street. “You guys have a pool?”

Mandy giggled, wrapping her arms around him from behind. “See Mick? He’s a keeper. I told you—not the jealous type.”

“Don’t get it twisted. Murder would do any person who tries sucking your dick, a generous favor,” Ian said, eliciting a full body twist from his boyfriend, and a gasp from the backseat.

“Shit, bro—maybe I got it wrong. He sounds almost as possessive as you.”

Mickey’s eyebrows all but jumped off his forehead, his sister matching his stupefaction in the rear-view mirror. They drove to the sounds of the radio for a few beats before Mickey piped up.

“You a jealous man, Gallagher?” he asked, slipping his hand beneath Ian’s on the gearshift.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What you consider jealousy.”

Mandy hummed to herself, tearing open a package of candy to share between them. “Would it bother you if Mickey went to the bar without you?”

Ian had to think about it because context mattered. “No.”

“What if some random barfly tried taking him out back to turn him out?” she pressed, earning herself a wicked glare from her sibling.

“Uh—I think in that situation I’d have to take the dude out to the lake, tie cement blocks to his ankles, and remind Mickey why I’m the better candidate.”

Mandy cackled through a mouthful of gummy worms, punching a grinning Mickey in the shoulder. “Yep. He’s Southside for sure.”

\----------

Mickey had no issues with commercial flights, but Ian and Mandy relied on a little pharmaceutical magic to get them to stop squirming in their seats. They were fortunate to have a row to themselves, Mandy’s obnoxious puffy jacket taking up more than her share of space on one side, Ian turning into a human chatterbox on the other.

“It’s not even cold in here,” he complained, nudging her to move over. “You look like a clown.”

“Did you even pack a jacket, Mick? It’s winter in Chicago, dumbass.”

“Don’t need to—still got one at the house.”

“Well, not all of us want to freeze our asses off on the way there,” she said, finishing her miniature bottle of rum. “It’s your fault we’re packed like sardines right now. Dad said he’d get us first class, but alas, you want to snuggle.”

“Hope you didn’t forget to pack your tiara, princess.”

Mandy let out an exaggerated squeak. “No, Mick. I don’t need to. _Still got one at the house_.”

Ian leaned forward in his seat to get a better view of their petulance. “Do I need to separate you two?”

“If miss _thing_ over here doesn’t stop tossing back bottles of booze like it’s spring break, you might have to.”

The inebriated sibling chuckled, waving down the flight attendant for a refill, her dixie cup of orange juice still full to the edge on her tray. “He’s in for an actual surprise, isn’t he? Talkin’ like you’re so dignified. You just wait, Ian—Mickey is quite a peach when he’s wasted.”

Ian smirked, sitting back to glance out the window, hooking his pinky finger with Mickey’s between the seats. He wondered if anyone had noticed how gorgeous the redhead was from every angle. If anyone had looked at him and noticed just how each feature on his face melded into the next, flawless. The odd spot of acne, the way his bottom lip chapped up if he forgot to use the peppermint lip shit he kept in his pocket at all times, only added to the allure. He recognized that Ian was attractive from the get-go, but he was falling for the creases in his cheeks when he smiled, and the way he ran his thumb over the tips of his fingers in absentminded nervousness. Mickey was falling, and for the first time, he didn’t want his parachute to open.

“You okay?”

Ian tipped his head back on the seat with a warm, sidelong gaze. “Thinking about this morning.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wish we were there right now—floating in the sky.”

“We’re still in the sky, man.”

A sluggish grin pulled at the edges of his mouth, emerald eyes looking into him like they were more than just two bodies. “I like you, Mickey. A lot.”

He swallowed hard, prickles of heat working their way into his neck and the apples of his cheeks. “I like you a lot, too.” It was a whisper, so quiet that he worried Ian might’ve missed it if infatuation hadn’t held them to each other like heat-seeking missiles.

“How much is a lot—if you could measure it—what would that look like?” Ian asked, voice so low it was cracking under the strain.

Mickey’s heart tumbled inside his chest like a clothes dryer, his head light and dizzy from the rush of chemicals simmering under his skin. It was too much to measure, too big. It was love.

“Give me a little time—I promise I’ll show you.”

Tears brimmed Ian’s eyes, pulling Mickey’s hand to his lips, a gentle kiss to each knuckle before glancing out at the clouds again. It would be more, so much more, if they were alone. It made his body hum.

“Join the mile high club, already,” Mandy snorted, her grin outshining them both. “You guys are giving me cavities.”

\----------

While Mickey helped his intoxicated sibling search for her bags, Ian leaned against a pillar in the airport lounge, texting long awaited updates to Dallis, who was no doubt squealing on the other end with each response. He never hesitated to share his racing thoughts with his friend, raw emotions he knew better than to share with his family. They wanted him to find happiness, but not enough that it resembled mania. Every moment with Mickey was more than ordinary. He wanted to shout from the rooftops that his broken brain had finally experienced genuine pleasure. It was on the tip of his tongue to call his brothers and tell them that even if he failed at his career to epic proportions; he had never been better off. It was in his heart to call his sisters and ask them to make up an excuse, any excuse, to have Mickey over for a visit.

When your brain had led you astray as many times as his had, the luxury of sharing puppy love moments wasn’t abundant. One day they would have the chance to see.

_**He took you skydiving, Ian. Skydiving! Who does that? That is like proposal level shit. You’re bringing out the green monster in me, friend.** _

Ian rubbed his sore cheeks, sending Dallis the picture he took of Mickey’s car in front of a building he never thought he’d step foot into. ‘SoCal Sky’ stood out in big letters along the rooftop, clear blue skies serving up the most exquisite backdrop. He would have pinched himself if his hands were free.

_**Promise you’re not upset that I’m missing Friendsgiving? I swear I’ll make it up to you, Dal.** _

Her response reminded him that sometimes, life chooses family after you leave the home.

_**Don’t you dare even THINK about that. I’ll be here when you get back. Just make sure you bring me all the juicy details!!! Netflix is drowning me in hetero-normative garbage.** _

Mandy’s giggle rang out as her disgruntled brother hauled her over his shoulder, gesturing for Ian to grab a cart for all their belongings.

“Almost lost boozey the clown back there—her drunk ass fell on the damn baggage carousel.”

“You are _so_ dramatic,” Mandy wheezed, slapping him on the back to put her down. “I stared at it too long, gave me the spins.”

“Drinking your weight in samplers gave you the spins, bozo. You’re loaded. Can’t believe I have to bring you home like this. Shoulda slapped a tag on you and sent your ass to Timbuktu.”

Ian keeled over in laughter, bracing himself against the trolly. “Everyone’s glaring at you like you’re a controlling husband or something.”

“See? Put me down!”

“Nope.”

“ _Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich_ —put me down right now!”

Ian rolled the baggage cart in the opposite direction, heading toward the exit, the siblings still squabbling in place behind him, not paying mind to his swift departure. The automatic doors slid open, exposing him to the icy breeze permeating his California bones. The scent wasn’t what he remembered. Nothing smelled quite like home, after Mickey came hurtling into his universe.

He glanced back to see the Milkovich two, wrestling like children in the lobby, faces red from laughter. It was a sight for sore eyes.

“Got a light?” a stranger asked, sienna brown eyes giving him a once over. “Left mine in the truck.”

“Oh, sure! Uh—hold on,” Ian said, patting his pockets. “My boyfriend might’ve jacked it from me. Ah! Found it—here ya go.”

The gentleman gave him a spirited smile, observing him through the flame as smoke billowed from the sides of his mouth. He handed the lighter back, grinning to the Gods.

“Malachiah—by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Ian,” he stated, blowing his own lungful of smoke in the other direction before shaking the man’s hand. “I gotta say, I don’t miss this cold. Shit.”

“Where are you from?” Malachiah asked, gentle eyes accented by decades of life, crow’s feet extending with his grin.

“Here, actually, but I moved to Los Angeles for school. Grew up Southside—didn’t want that to be the end of my story, I guess.”

The man nodded, buttoning up his peacoat. “My husband grew up there too. You can take the man out of the Southside—” he chuckled, handing his lighter back. “How’re you liking school—is LA all you hoped it would be?”

“Oh, it’s great,” Ian beamed, noticing how genuine the strangers’ interest was, and how uninhibited it made him feel. “The past couple months have been a dream—almost too good to be true. I’m hoping I don’t mess it all up.”

Malachiah slipped on a pair of leather gloves with a toothy grin, sky high cheekbones the happier he got. “What makes you think you’ll mess it up?”

“History repeats itself, right?” he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, tossing it in a gutter sitting against the sidewalk. “Oh shit, I’m talking a lot about myself, aren’t I?”

“He has that affect,” Mickey chuckled, his sudden presence startling Ian out of his skin. “What’s up Dad?”

Malachiah pulled Mickey into a tight embrace, Mandy throwing herself on top of them with a happy squeak. It took Ian a minute to put the pieces together, and once he did, he felt his skin burn what he expected to be six shades of crimson.

“You’re Mickey’s dad,” Ian said, contrition at the precipice of his voice.

“Yes sir,” he beamed, patting his son on the back with enthusiasm. “I like your boy, Khail.”

Mickey returned a smile so substantial that his gums were glistening, pure jubilation written all over his face. “I like him too.”

Mandy wobbled on her feet, linking her arm with Ian’s. “I liked him first—of course he had to be gay.”

Malachiah let out a contagious belly laugh, handing his cigarette to Mickey. “Mandabear, you are going to get quite the lecture from Pappy when he sees the state of his only daughter.”

“Tried to warn her,” Mickey smirked, licking his lips, and looking up from his lashes when Ian gathered the courage to make eye contact again.

“Speaking of which—let’s hit the road before he files a missing person’s report,” Mickey’s dad tittered, opening his arms for Mandy to slink her way over. “There’s someone he’s dying to meet.”

He winked at Ian, turning on his heel to show them the way back to his truck, snow crunching beneath his Doc Martens. Mandy swayed at his side, her blonde head resting on his shoulder, their distant chatter sounding light and happy. Mickey crushed his cigarette under his boot with a mischievous grin, reaching for Ian’s pockets and using them as leverage to wrench him closer.

“Surprise.”

“How long were you standing behind me?” Ian groaned, poking Mickey in the stomach. “Give a guy a warning.”

Mickey slid a chilly hand to the back of Ian’s head, standing on his tiptoes to kiss him into submission. When they came up for air, Mickey’s breath visible against the Chicago winter air, Ian couldn’t remember which way was up.

“Welcome to the family, Red.”


	12. Pecans or Marshmallows?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian learns something new about Mickey, and Mickey learns how much he's been missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, my friends! I know this has been a terrible time for so many, and though a fresh start doesn't feel realistic, I hope you remind yourselves of your accomplishments, no matter how small they may seem. Each and every one of you are amazing. Wishing you all the very best in the coming months.

A few feet from a cherry red truck, Malachiah spun around, eyebrows waggling in his son’s direction. Mickey’s shivering body sparked back to life, seeing his dad light up with joy. They’d spent many hours over the years huddled together in the garage, greasy fingers and torn shirts. He could still hear the radio playing classic rock while tools clanged. It was a hobby Malachiah adopted, not long after he realized how much Mickey enjoyed it. It gave them a project to focus on without having the spotlight shine on Mickey and his trauma, fulfilling the purpose of helping him heal, without making it obvious that he was a project himself.

“Turned out nice, didn’t she?” Malachiah asked, running a hand across the headlights and grill.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous. Way better in person.”

“Shop said we did a phenomenal job with the bodywork.”

Mickey, teeth chattering, walked the perimeter of the truck. “You take her to any meets?”

“Whenever Pappy lets me off the hook. Cruised over to one a couple weekends ago—still a handful of familiar faces. Told ‘em you were coming to town, they’re dying to see you.”

His icy cheeks stung from excitement. It had been a long while since he thought about car enthusiast meetups. Los Angeles wasn’t lacking in that department, but any time he researched his local options, it just didn’t intrigue him the same as it did in Chicago. Malachiah’s presence factored into that. Nothing held the same weight as showing off his work with his dad’s vibrant, contagious grin beaming next to him.

Ian stood off to the side, unzipping his coat to make room for Mandy to furrow against him, matching smiles gracing their faces as they watched the interaction unfold. It was refreshing to have the freedom to be himself, knowing that the redhead didn’t seem to find his hobbies a threat. It was the opposite of his previous relationship. With Ian, he had silent permission to explore the world. It only made his desire to do it hand in hand, that much greater.

“You like trucks, Ian?” Malachiah asked, moving to stand with them while Mickey finished his inspection.

“They’re not my passion per se—but I have nothing against ‘em. I like that Mickey likes them.”

Mickey overheard Ian’s response as he leaned to observe the flawless, powder coated rims. His dad must have approved because there was a rise in warmth to his voice.

“Maybe we can convince Khail to drag his ass over to a meet—it would be an honour to show you the ropes if you’re interested.”

Mickey bit his bottom lip to keep his entire jaw from falling out. He hadn’t considered how much it meant to him, to have his dad’s approval. He never thought he’d be lucky enough to have a family beyond Mandy that mattered to that degree.

Ian rocked from side to side, rubbing Mandy’s back in what Mickey interpreted to be a bid to keep them from freezing together. “That’s up to Mick. I’m just along for the ride.”

There was no indignation in the redhead’s response. Mickey could only detect the deep consideration his words held. Heat bloomed inside him.

“Ah, I’d never miss an opportunity to show you off to my friends,” Mickey said, earning him a boisterous headshake from his dad.

“Alright, love birds. Let’s get Mandy home before she turns into a rum-sicle. We should hit a drive thru for some coffee. A lecture from Pappy lasts longer than I’m willing to endure tonight.”

Mandy piped up; her grouchy retort muffled against Ian’s chest. “Nobody said anything about rum.”

“Yes, well, I know my little girl better than you think.”

“Not little,” she griped, throwing up a middle finger behind her. “I’m almost thirty.”

“You’ll always be little to me.”

\----------

The drive was shorter than Ian remembered. He hadn’t spent a great deal of time on the Northside, but he’d lived in Chicago long enough to know the general distance between monumental landmarks. Pleasant conversation and familiar scenery kept him from glancing at his watch, and before long, they were parking in front of an upscale, cottage style home, with a multi car garage to one side. It wasn’t the ritzy mansion he was picturing in his head, but it was tasteful and modern, holding impressive space in a chic neighborhood, without being ostentatious enough to make him feel too out of place.

Mandy hobbled out of the truck, pinching the bridge of her nose with a groan. Without so much as a word, she skittered down the pathway beside the garage, avoiding the front door at all costs. Mickey shook his head with a knowing huff, hauling her bags out and leaving them in a pile on the driveway. Malachiah patted the boys on their backs, jogging up to the house and entering through the garage. The bay door slid open, exposing several of the nicest cars Ian had ever seen up close.

“Why do I get the impression that everyone is avoiding your— _Pappy_?”

He leaned his back against the truck with a smirk. “Dad’s a total show-off. Never goes through the garage unless he wants to wave a little testosterone around.” Mickey licked his lips, giving a playful kick to Ian’s sneaker. “You’re growing on him, Gallagher.”

Ian’s heart thumped in his chest. “Am I growing on _you_?”

Mickey frowned for a moment, making Ian’s mouth go dry with apprehension. His hands slid, soft as goose down, underneath Ian’s jacket and to the small of his back. “By the second.”

It was everything he needed to hear to abandon his thoughts in a passionate kiss, gentle hands turning hungry against hints of bare skin. Mickey kissed him breathless, like a jigsaw puzzle cut in only two pieces found each other at last.

“Sucking face with my only son is a brave first impression, I’ll give you that,” a voice chuckled, causing Ian to break away from Mickey like they had caught him stealing jewelry from a Royal.

He stiffened, swiping the moist corners of his mouth with his jacket, not knowing how to remedy his blatant oversight. To his relief, Mickey didn’t let him flail too long, engaging in a slapping hug with his parent. Their smiles spoke volumes about their bond, the fondness Mickey had with Malachiah expanding to both fathers.

“So, you’re Ian, huh?”

“Y-yes. Sorry—uh, Ian Gallagher.”

“Gallagher? Any relation to Fiona?”

Ian’s stomach flopped. “She’s my sister.”

He grinned, his clean-shaven face exposing the lines of a kind smile. “Splendid girl. She used to bring your siblings into the free clinic sometimes.”

“Oh really?”

The man paused, like he might scold himself in silence for breaking doctor patient confidentiality. After an awkward beat, he reached out his hand. “ _Rhett_ —pediatric surgeon.”

The introduction was formal, with a hint of nervousness. The man continued. “I try to get as many hours at the free clinic as I can. Your sister is feisty, I always admired the way she advocated for you all.”

The tight ball at the pit of Ian’s stomach unraveled, still too overwhelmed to check in with Mickey. “That’s a relief—for a minute there I wondered which scam she ran on you. The Gallaghers are resourceful.”

Rhett let loose a hearty laugh, picking up Mandy’s bags from the asphalt. “Eh, I’ll never knock Southside hustle. How do you think I paid for medical school?”

Mickey snickered, lacing his fingers through Ian’s. “He’s fuckin’ with you, Red. There isn’t an indecent bone in this man’s body. One time he paid the cashier at the store down the street not to sell me smokes anymore, though.”

“I stand by my decision. Gotta kick the habit, son,” Rhett said, nudging Mickey to grab the last bag. “I’ll let you off the hook, since you’ve brought a worthy partner home, but expect me to nag soon.”

Heat spilled across Ian’s cheeks, grateful to be walking behind them. _Worthy partner_. That was a first, and following a not so sinless first impression, filled him with flutters of hope. Rhett gave another nurturing pat to Mickey’s shoulders before jogging into the house to hunt down his daughter.

Among the numbers beside the front door was a handcrafted sign that read The Campbells. It was a mark of prosperity and hit Ian with a pang of tenderness. He hung back to appreciate the fine woodwork, comfortable being a poor kid but imagining for just a moment that he had the abundance to adorn a beautiful home with the family name. It mixed him up inside.

He noticed they hadn’t included Milkovich.

“Couldn’t risk it,” Mickey said, tossing his sister’s bags into the foyer.

“Hm?”

“They offered, but it wasn’t safe to plaster our name outside. That’s why you’ve got that abandoned puppy look on your face, yeah?”

“No. _Maybe_. How did you know?”

Mickey smirked, reaching up to cup Ian’s face. “Wasn’t born yesterday. You got this droopy eyed sad thing going.”

“It doesn’t bother you—that your names aren’t up there?”

“Nah, man. Dad wanted us to take their last name, anyway.”

Ian let the combination roll around in his mind, Mickey and Mandy Campbell. “How come you didn’t take it?”

Mickey’s grin faded, hiding his expression with an alacritous kiss. “You gonna stand out here and quiz me all day, or are you gonna let me show your pretty ass around?”

Ian gave a playful flick to the tip of Mickey’s nose, drowning in the adorable way he crinkled his face against the attack. “After you, boss.”

\----------

Mickey snickered at the muffled confrontation coming from the kitchen, Mandy defending her current state of inebriation, while they climbed the stairs to finish the grand tour. Ian’s eyes were wide, darting all around, as an ensemble of _wow_ and _holy shit_ filled the air. It was a fear of Mickey’s that Ian would see the house and hold him to a different standard. His frisson was only feeding the voice in his head, but he trusted Ian to separate the two. He was still Southside. The custom, elaborate chandeliers and spotless designer rugs were no sign of who he was.

High ceilings and pristine art pieces led them to Mickey’s room, not a thing out of place since the last time he visited. Ian stopped to admire the art adorning the walls, and the gold framed family photos, all four of them dressed to perfection, the Milkovich two donning their trademark smirks. He found any picture of himself to be cringeworthy and downright embarrassing, but Ian’s gaze lingered, a quirk pulling at his lips.

“I wish I knew you.”

“You know me, Red.”

“I mean back then—when you were younger,” Ian said, his eyes glued to the framed memory. “I see this guy and I just want to wrap my arms around him.”

Mickey swallowed, willing himself to observe the snapshot. “Trust me, you wouldn’t still be around if you met me then. I was a mess.”

“You don’t look like a mess,” Ian murmured, running a freckled finger along the bevelled edges.

“It’s amazing what a talented photographer and some clean clothes can do, man. I spent most of that day with headphones in my ears, fighting tooth and nail against the whole thing. Even made Rhett cry—fuckin’ sucks lookin’ back on it.”

“They love you, Mick.”

“Yeah, I know. Haven’t got the slightest fucking clue why.”

Ian frowned at his self contempt, tracing his jaw with a heavy breath. “I do.”

“That right?” Mickey asked, jitters percolating through him. “You make me wanna swallow my tongue, you sappy fucker.”

The redhead erupted into ebullient chuckles, slipping past him toward the door marked _Stay the Fuck Out_ on a piece of cardboard. “They let you hang this?”

“What makes you think that’s my room?”

Ian’s eye roll was impressive. “Come on, this has your angst all over it.”

“I took that shit down years ago. Dad hangs it back up every time we leave,” Mickey explained, swiping the angry sign from the carved wood door. “Couple of wackos, if you ask me.”

He shouldered through the door, exposing the stark contrast of big-ticket furniture, and a disarrangement of abstract paintings and art supplies littering the expansive floor space. He had the largest bedroom in the house, though the rest were nothing less than magnificent. Clothes hung from a folded treadmill in the far corner, right where he’d left them many months before.

“Your own personal treadmill—you sure you weren’t a jock?” Ian teased, pulling him by his waistband.

“Look whose talking, Gallagher. You spend more time at the gym than you do with me.”

An explanation would darken the mood and send them deeper into his past than he wanted to go. His parents gifted him exercise equipment of his own, but The Campbells weren’t the type to spoil without cause. They were generous and eager to care for their family, but each decision they made served a valuable purpose. 

The view from his balcony jolted Ian’s feisty response. “Whoa, Mick! This is your back yard?”

Mickey opened the double doors, gesturing for the redhead to step outside. “That’s what they tell me.”

They overlooked a manicured property, icy green grass accenting stone pathways and luxe water fixtures, a guest house settled at the far end. Formations of ice were developing, replacing the calming waters, only making the marble and stone appear more ornamented. 

“And that’s Mandy’s place—her cabana?”

He dug for the crumpled pack of smokes at his hip, lighting one up before handing it to Ian. “That’s the one. They turned it into an arcade or something. We’ll check it out later after Mandy finishes kissing ass downstairs.”

“Speaking of kissing ass,” Ian said through a lung full of smoke. “Are your parents gonna make me sleep out there?”

Mickey chuckled, biting his lip to keep from shoving the redhead against the wall. “Maybe they will, maybe they won’t.”

“Going to sneak me in, Milkovich?”

“Mm, that all depends. You willing to slay the dragons and climb the tower?”

Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s neck, cigarette clenched at the corner of his mouth. “Always.”

“Better turn me out now, just in case.”

Fire flitted across playful green eyes, Ian’s tongue moistening his lips in anticipation. “And ruin your fancy sheets?”

Mickey stubbed out their cigarette in a crystal dish sitting just outside the doors, wiping his clammy hands against his pants. He’d never had sex in his bedroom, and not just out of respect for his parents. He painted his comforter with his seed a time or two from many pent up nights of self pleasure, ones he tried to erase by jamming the blanket into the washing machine, but he liked no one entering his space. Even Mandy kept her visits brief, most of their hang outs occurring in her cabana or other parts of the house. Ian crossed the barrier, and somehow it didn’t make his skin crawl.

“ _Gay lords!_ ” Mandy hollered from down the hall, her footsteps rattling the floor as she approached. “You better not be fucking in there—I’m coming in. Cover your dicks.” Her spunky buzz had worn down to a fizzle, hair twisted in a mop on top of her head, once smeared makeup vanished, leaving a dewy glow of fresh skin in its place. It took years off her in an instant. “You’re needed downstairs, Mikhailo.”

“The fuck for?”

“Just go, I’ll babysit your hunky boy toy,” she beamed, winking at Ian like he was her partner in crime, the redhead returning her gesture with his own toothy grin. “Pappy needs your help, move your ass.”

“Alright, but don’t go rummaging through my shit—and try not to humiliate me while I’m gone.”

Mandy scoffed, pushing him into the hallway. “Like I’d ever dream of it.”

\----------

Mickey gave her a look, like his concern was more than justified, and within minutes Mandy was proving his point. She yanked Ian into the walk-in closet, leading him down a narrow hallway into a space far larger than Ian’s entire bedroom in L.A. She padded the wall for the light switch, illuminating her brother’s best-kept secrets.

Striking acrylic paintings lay in stacks in every direction, landscapes, buildings, and snippets of nature leaned up where space allowed. An easel sat in the middle of the room, the cedar frame splashed with layers of paint, brushes stained with vibrant fingerprints of colour, handles down in an old pickle jar. A Carhartt jacket hung on a hook beside a tall metal shelf carrying dozens of paint bottles, Mickey’s scent becoming stronger as Ian scanned the collection, scribbles of Sharpie in messy writing adorning most containers.

“He made all these?”

The apples of Mandy’s cheeks rose higher, smiling with her eyes. “Unreal, isn’t it? There’s a small fortune in here. Dad’s friends have offered him thousands over the years, but he hates everything he creates too much to sell anything.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. How can anyone hate these? They belong in an art gallery, they’re so good.”

Her shrug was meek but telling. “I think you’re the only person to make him feel, y’know—like enough. Before you came along, he’d paint over himself and hide away in this closet forever if he could.”

It stung Ian’s chest like someone had struck him with a hot knife. “Not with you and your parents around. You guys are amazing.”

“It doesn’t matter, Ian. All the love in the world doesn’t affect you if you don’t feel deserving of it.”

A dilapidated house sat on the easel, streaks of black and grey slashing the edges of the stretched canvas like burgeoning storm clouds, a palette knife with clumps of dried paint of the same shade balancing on the ledge. It was unlike anything Ian could see of his assemblage, and the image made the room colder somehow.

“Where’s this?”

Mandy sat with hesitance on the stool in front of the somber canvas, spinning around to look up at him. The image behind her towered over her slender frame in ways he didn’t understand.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Mickey barked, his voice making them jump. “Mandy, I ask you to do _one_ thing—one.”

Ian expected typical banter, but the temperature dropped further as Mickey slid past them, snatching his work from the easel, and leaning it against the far wall out of sight. Mandy didn’t stand up from the stool, her hands clutched together in her lap.

“I thought you’d want Ian to see this.”

“Don’t you think if I wanted him to see it, I would show him myself? Jesus Christ, your boundaries are worse with me than the revolving door of douchebags you bone.”

Mandy flinched, her steeled glare glossing over as she croaked out her response. “Go fuck yourself, you petulant asshole.”

Ian reached for her arm, but she fled from his grip, slamming his bedroom door behind her. Moments dragged out in silence as he tried to make eye contact, but Mickey’s sight remained fixed at his feet.

“I should have asked,” Ian whispered, Mickey’s sidelong glance making his stomach twist. “I—I can leave.”

“Leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Mickey lifted his gaze, lips set in a hard line. He grabbed a brush from the jar between them, running his thumb over worn bristles. “I won’t stop you, but I don’t want you to go.”

Ian wished a landscape in his peripheral vision would absorb him, eliminating the earthquake crumbling his insides. The stream of thoughts knocking around in his head were loud, and it was tough not to take his knee jerk reaction to heart.

“I think your paintings are beautiful, Mick. I’m sorry if you didn’t want me to see them.”

Mickey placed the brush across the lip of the jar before it slipped from the rim. It made a clacking noise as it hit the floor, reverberating through the space. Ian rushed to pick it up, rolling the gritty handle in his palm. His fingers found every imperfection in the wood, sliding along every split in the tool as he imagined all the hours his lover spent holding it.

“You paint, Gallagher?”

“Dabbled once in a while as a kid. Closest thing I get to painting nowadays is makeup related stuff. I don’t have the skill or patience for it, and I never came close to this,” he confessed, guiding his open hand across the room. “When did you realize you had such natural talent?”

Mickey snorted, picking up a small canvas to criticize each brush stroke. “Your blowing smoke up my ass.”

“I’m not. Your work belongs in the world, Mick. Not tucked away collecting dust.”

His nostrils flared at Ian’s words, chewing at the inside of his lip as he tossed the small painted panel aside. “Why are you so nice to me?”

It was a preposterous question with no answer strong enough to erase years of insecurity, but Ian was familiar with the quandary. Mickey needed more than consistent reminders of his aptitude. He needed to feel it.

“I met you and suddenly I wasn’t leaving the Southside to chase my career. I was leaving home to find you.”

Mickey blinked at him, chest rising and falling with his quickening breaths. He rubbed the palms of his hands against his face, like he was attempting to wake himself from a dream. After several beats, and a nervous flick of his nose with his thumb, he pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning on, straightening his posture like a man ready to climb Mount Everest for the first time. The room became smaller in a matter of seconds, as Mickey closed the area that separated them.

“Can you do something for me, Gallagher?”

Ian closed his eyes to warm, inviting breath as the hammering in his chest knocked his balance out of whack. “Anything.”

“Take your shirt off.”

Ian obliged in a blur, stripping the clothing from his upper body with one swift motion, dropping the fabric at his feet. It was instantaneous how the depth in Mickey’s tone enticed his body.

“Your turn.”

Mickey shook his head, dragging a tote across the floor for Ian to sit on. “I need you to uh—sit here for a minute. Well, not a minute. Longer than that.”

“How long?”

He scratched his head, a smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. “Long as it takes to paint ya.”

“Why would you want to paint me?”

“For the same reason you want me to share my artwork.”

Ian wasn’t sure whose cheeks burned brighter, but if they could measure the heat of his skin, he was sure he’d break every scale. “Paint away.”

“Yeah?”

“Just um, make me look better if you can. Less pale—leave out the scars.”

Mickey pried open a can of paint, looking up at the redhead as white acrylic dripped down his wrist. “No dice, Red. You’re perfect the way you are.”

“Mick—”

He held up a tattooed hand, the tips of his fingers decorated in paint. “When we look back at this down the line, I want to remember you the way you were.”

Ian shifted on the tote, glancing down at the patches of hair on his chest and his belly. The way his skin folded as he sat. He was a healthy guy, prioritizing fitness to sustain his mental health and self image, but it didn’t alter what his mind reflected. If he stared too long, he was still that awkward ginger nerd, with a predatory boss and a slew of men who saw nothing more than a twink.

Mickey turned to face him, the squeak of the stool a temporary distraction from his worries. “What’s going through your head?”

“Nothing good.”

He took in a sharp breath as he stood, making it to Ian in two strides and kneeling between his legs.

“You make me do that humiliating high-pitched laugh thing whenever you catch me off guard. I can’t focus when I know you’re looking at me, and when we had that stupid fight, I called my parents to ask for advice because I was so afraid to lose you it made me question my entire life without you in it.”

Ian held his shaking hands, colour transferring to his fingers from the points the paint had already kissed Mickey’s. Blue eyes burned into his own, squeezing his hands tight.

“Your imperfections are art to me, like someone put you together piece by fuckin’ piece and dropped you in front of me to give my life purpose. Like everything I’d ever done before, was just practice. So, you can tell me how much you hate yourself all you want, but I’m gonna take it personal because out of billions of people, you’re the only one I see. _The only one_. You tellin’ me I’ve got bad taste?”

“N-no.”

“Good. Now sit up so I can get this right the first time. I wanna fuck you until your legs shake, and that can’t happen until I finish this.”

\----------

Mickey decided that the only crazy thing about Ian was his inability to see how incredible he was. It wouldn’t matter if he lost his Adonis torso, and his cock shrunk four inches. What he offered wasn’t about his appearance at the root. He was all the things Mickey needed, wrapped up in a pretty package, and if someone removed the glitzy paper, what was underneath was plenty beautiful on its own.

Every stroke of his brush affirmed his opinion. Down to the last detail, Ian was a sculpture of pure jim-dandy. He caught himself calculating ways to paint the sound of his voice, and his laughter. It was all a part of what made him such a disarming and riveting man, and if he could capture it on canvas, he’d be a millionaire at the first bid.

“Back getting sore?”

Ian tittered, attempting to respond without engaging all his muscles. “A little.”

“I’m almost done—can I get you something to drink? Do you need anything?”

“I’m good for now, but I’m getting you a better chair for Christmas. This bin doesn’t match the skill of the artist, and I think my ass is changing shape as we speak.”

Mickey stuck out his tongue, moving his gaze back to the paint tray. “No need. I won’t be painting anyone else.”

“Don’t do many portraits?”

“Nope. Just you.”

“Just me? Gotta say, Milkovich, that doesn’t instill much confidence.”

He shot the redhead his middle finger, almost losing grip of his brush. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been tracing the same stickman over and over.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’m serious. I’m gonna have to wait until I die to sell it if I ever wanna be famous. It’s one step up from a fingerpainting. Is it a dog, is it a person?”

“You’re making me laugh. Stop it!”

“Ian Gallagher, the great inanimate object, painted by the Great Fingerless Mickey. He doesn’t have eyes, but man—can he ever paint with his toes!”

Ian’s stony expression split into a barrel of laughter, knocking him from the bin and onto the floor to clutch his sides like they might detach if he didn’t get his cackles under wraps. Mickey dropped his fine tipped brush in a murky cup of water, stunned by how young the man looked, all scrunched in exuberance.

“Time for a break?” Mickey teased, wiping his hands on his thighs, destroying his umpteenth pair of pants. “You’re like a giggling chinchilla, I’m surprised your lungs haven’t burst.”

“Shut up,” Ian wheezed, laying flat on his back in pursuit of self-control. “I’m so over you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. You’re not even that funny,” Ian said, brows dancing on his face as his fits left him gasping for air. “Oh my god, I can’t breathe—you’re such a shit head. I can’t—can’t stop laughing.”

Mickey chuckled, crawling across the floor to straddle the redhead before he tore the house down. With an arm at either side of his face, he balanced his weight on his elbows, leaning forward to capture each huff of laughter with his lips. Ian’s jolts settled as Mickey’s tongue slipped between his teeth and licked the most sensitive parts of Ian’s mouth with aching precision.

“Take it back,” Mickey murmured, stopping to leave a smacking kiss on his lips between each word.

“Take what back?”

“You said I’m not even that funny. I’m hilarious.”

Ian deadpanned. “You’re the most boring person I’ve ever met, Mick. Zero percent funny.”

“Mm.”

“If you met an actual laugh in person, like a bona fide laugh with arms and legs, you’d make it cry with your jokes.”

Mickey pinched the sensitive skin at Ian’s hips, reaching back for the cup of water he’d been using to clean his brushes, hovering it over the redhead’s face.

“Don’t you dare,” Ian warned, holding his hand inches from the unsteady liquid. “Do it and I’ll petition to have every apple fritter on this earth obliterated.”

“You wouldn’t _dare_.”

\----------

Time got away from them, as it always did. Mickey opened half a dozen text messages from his parents, heckling him from the kitchen where they were still quibbling over who remembered Grammy’s dessert recipe with the most accuracy. Mickey shifted the easel away from prying eyes, giving Ian space to get dressed, taking a moment to respond.

_**Be right down, showing Ian my paintings.** _

With a cavalcade of implicating emojis, Rhett responded to their group message first.

_**Is ‘paintings’ some newfangled lingo, ‘cos you’ve been up there over two hours, son. Mandy is ready to organize a search party. We want grandbabies, but…..** _

Malachiah turned his flicker of happiness and hilarity into sheer felicity, the tight ball in his stomach melting away.

_**Take your time, Khail. Come down when you’re ready.** _

He appreciated both men, but Dad knew him best. There wasn’t a defining moment he could place a finger on, but he’d known for years that their connection was different. Rhett offered healing to him in important ways, and he thought the world of the doctor, but Malachiah could see him in depth, without a spoken word between them. It meant something that he was sharing his art with Ian.

“You should apologize to Mandy,” Ian said, sifting through a stack of canvas and holding one up with a grin. “How much do you want for this one?”

“It’s not for sale, and I know—I’m a dick. Shouldn’t have snapped at her like that.”

“I’ll give you five thousand for it.”

“Hilarious,” Mickey countered, grabbing the piece for closer inspection. “Don’t have to pay me shit, Gallagher. It’s yours if you want it.”

Ian ogled the artwork with fondness. “Ball park on the Southside, right?”

“Bingo. It’s wild that you got it, man—had to put it together by memory.”

It was one of his more frustrating pieces to date. He hadn’t been painting for more than a few months, and while dexterity wasn’t on his side, it was the obsession that pissed him off. The image niggled at him, though he’d spent no meaningful time at the location. It was with him when he slept, the first thing he thought about when he woke, and every moment in between for ages. Twelve hours into the project, he considered taking the canvas out back to whack it with an old hockey stick from the garage. He finished it, begrudging as the task had become, and he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out.

“You did this by memory, no photos or anything? Wow.”

“Been there before?”

“Used to play softball as a kid,” Ian grinned, holding the frame up high to examine Mickey’s signature. “Slept in the dugouts sometimes when I got older—before my diagnosis.”

Mickey braced against a blanket of tingles, desperate to turn back time to find the redhead before he had to spend another hour on cold concrete. Strife and torment handed him a life of luxury, but Ian didn’t get a rescue at all. There were no silk-stocking families knocking at his door, offering him an easier path.

“I’m sorry, man. That’s rough. Home wasn’t safe?”

Ian shrugged, hugging the painting against his chest. “Is any home safe in the ghetto?”

“I mean—no. But a warm bed beats the hell out of chain-link. What happened?”

A knock startled them. Mandy cleared her throat, arms crossed as she stood as close to the entrance as a person could be. “Pappy’s wasting enough food to cause a nationwide shortage down there. He says it’s missing something.”

“What’re you talking about?” Mickey sighed with contrition. “What’s he trying to make?”

“Grammy’s sweet potato casserole. He wants to nail it before dinner tomorrow, and at this rate, it’s looking like we’ll be eating sometime between Christmas and my death.”

He squeezed Ian’s shoulder on his way past, standing in front of his resentful sibling, voice cracking as he whispered. “Alright, we’re coming down. Hey—I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I’m a jerk.”

“Yeah, you are,” Mandy hissed, curling her lip. “You’ve been a dick to me all day. What gives?”

“On edge, I guess. First day back is always the toughest. I’m sorry for taking it out on you.”

Her scowl faded when Mickey stepped forward to pull her close, resting his head on her shoulder in a tight hug. They were no strangers to projecting their disgruntled emotions onto each other, but they had both come too far to make a fresh habit of it. Apologies still made him tense up something awful, but years of therapy helped him learn when timing was essential.

“I forgive you, but only if you two Romeos promise to sleep with me in the cabana tonight. It’s creepy in there with all the blinky, noisy pinball machines and light strips. They took the whole home arcade thing way too far.”

\----------

Savory aromas filled the main level of the house, strong wafts billowing from the kitchen as Malachiah scrambled to balance the dishes Rhett was handing him from the oven. The siblings hopped up onto the stools by the granite bar top, pouring themselves drinks and snickering at the heightened squabble. Rhett would bet their marriage on pecans as the secret ingredient they were missing, but Malachiah raised the bar and bet their _lives_ it was something else. Their kids were no help, aside from a live audience stealing their best liquor, but the smiles never left the faces in the room. These were what Ian recognized as healthy debates in a sustainable relationship. He couldn’t think of a time that a fight back home hadn’t led to a screaming match and a battle of wits resulting in rigid emotional pain. It was a beautiful sight; made even more ravishing with the two people he was falling into fast bonds with, sitting an arm’s length away.

Mickey held his arm out for Ian to shuffle in closer, holding him at his side as he stood up between the giggling Milkoviches, beaming with glee to be a part of it all.

“I’m telling you—it’s missing the sweet!” Malachiah beseeched, scooping the mashed vegetables with his finger and plopping it into his mouth. “It’s my mother’s dish, I grew up with it.”

“ _Okay_ , then explain to me what the _sweet_ is, genius. You’re the one who consumed it all your life.”

Malachiah let out a pleasant, guttural laugh, patting his midsection. “Hey, I earned my love handles with pride, and it wasn’t because the dish was missing the sweet!”

“Did you put brown sugar in it?” Mandy asked, scrolling through an article on her phone. “Says here you’re supposed to.”

“Of course,” Rhett avowed, slapping a pair of purple silicone oven mitts on the grand kitchen island. “I even bought a bag of the dark kind since I’m not allowed to cut corners, and according to this giant pain in my ass, the light kind is a catastrophe to all treasured recipes.”

“What about marshmallows?” Ian suggested, hoping his squeak of a voice wasn’t as clear as it sounded in his head. “My sister Debbie—she went through a soul food phase, bought up every cookbook she could find. One recipe called for marshmallows, I think.”

Malachiah clapped his hands with a thunderous shout. “Ah-ha! He’s right Rhett, it’s flipping marshmallows. _How could I forget?_ Ian, you’ve just rescued Thanksgiving, my boy!”

Rhett pushed his trendy glasses up the bridge of his nose with a huff. “You’re just shelling out praise ‘cause he’s a redhead. Don’t listen to him Ian, this is how he swindles you into making him your favourite.”

“Well, _I’m sorry_ dear husband. But have you forgotten that _you too_ , are of the ginger brigade?” Malachiah guffawed, ruffling his husbands French Crop until strands of hair were standing in every direction, dodging spirited slaps from the smaller man as he tried to escape the assault.

Mickey looked up at Ian like he’d just hung the stars in the sky, Mandy lacing her arm through his as if they decided together that Ian was a keeper at that very moment. Warmth trickled from his forehead to his feet, the ding of the oven as gentle as the love vibrating between the walls. This might be the best family dinner Ian had ever taken part in.

“Can you run out to grab a bag of marshmallows? You can take the Porsche—”

“Fuck yeah!” Mickey piped, jumping from the stool to snatch the keys from their hook.

“Not you, lightweight,” Malachiah scolded, gesturing to his empty glass of rum and coke with a crooked grin. “Ian’s your DD. I don’t want you whipping around the mean streets with a drop of alcohol in your system.”

“What did I tell you?” Rhett caterwauled, winking at Ian before scraping the dish of sweet potatoes in the trash. “He’s gonna trick you into loving him, and it’s all downhill from there.”

“Hush, before you spoil my plan,” he retorted, taking the keys from his blushing son, and handing them to the newest addition of the family. “Grab pecans too, and no fooling around on my seats. I know where you criminals sleep at night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and as always, for your kind comments. They really do make me smile. More to come from this weekend with the parents. Take care.


	13. No Matter What

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey exposes a live wire. Ian understands what it takes to love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter. Violence, homophobic language, references to past abuse, the works.  
> This one is as intense as it will get, back to regularly scheduled programming of light angst and cavities from cuteness overloads. It's a mix of everything, but I hope it works. If not, I still enjoyed writing it and felt it was important to push the narrative forward. Thank you for reading, and as always, for your kind comments. I appreciate them endlessly.

Ian meditated on mental snapshots of the decaying house in Mickey’s painting, battered porch, cracked windows. It reminded him of something from a horror movie. Elegant homes with white picket fences slipped by as they drove through a neighborhood with nicer garden sheds than any houses from their stomping grounds. Ian tried to imagine Mickey with his headphones in, sauntering down the sidewalk adorning suburban homes, with the weight of that haunted house on his shoulders, and the memories of a community teetering on self destruction and poverty.

He had done that a lot since meeting Mickey. He ruminated about where he came from, and how he filled his spare time—which streets he took to navigate the Southside in such a way that he and Ian never crossed paths. Ian liked the outdoors, even when the backdrop was a blend of homeless under the L, and occasional gunfire. He spent most of his time in nature as a kid. Sometimes he’d ride the train just to spice up the monotony of it all. It was mind-boggling that he had never once, not even for a moment, ran into that ornery thug with magnificent ocean eyes, with lips as sweet as biting into a warm, sugared mini donut the first night of the carnival.

Fate was real, or it wasn’t, but he chewed the concept more than ever believing that if he met Mickey when they were kids, he’d go down with that ship even if it wrecked him. Kash set the bar low. But it wasn’t about that. How did any person meet Mickey, without wanting to watch him walk away until he disappeared around the corner of an alley? It seemed incomprehensible that a human being with a functioning brain would pass by him, and not want to ask him where he was going, and if he had a favourite animal, or brand of deodorant. He liked Mickey so much that inconsequential knowledge of his personal preferences seemed a lot like a foundation to build their life together. A home with a crackling fireplace, cluttered with art and half empty cans of paint on every surface. A couch they debated over that squeaked if you dropped on it too hard after a long day bringing creatures to life in front of a camera.

It was impossible to dismiss destiny when he lived so many days of his life, not knowing that a diagnosis was waiting for him in the dark. It wasn’t a decision he made, or an event that fractured his brain. They set it in genetic stone that somewhere along the way, he would come face to face with bipolar—psychotic features—tumbling descent into a break with reality.

“Hey—quit thinkin’ so hard,” Mickey said, squeezing Ian’s knee from the passenger seat. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” Ian murmured, lacing their fingers together on his thigh. “I just wonder how come we never met when we were kids.”

“Not possible to know _every_ kid on the Southside, Red.”

Ian tried to quantify the explanation, since it was a logical answer. The Gallaghers made a substantial dent in the community, but not everyone knew them. Even Frank, who wormed his way into every crevice, was still a perfect stranger to the odd occupant. But if he inherited Monica’s mental illness, he struggled to believe there was a world he wouldn’t meet Mickey the moment they were in the same hemisphere. He poured into Ian like epoxy resin and cured inside his soul without even a microscopic flaw. 

“I guess. It just bugs me—I feel like we missed out on so many years.”

Mickey tried to placate him with slow, nibbling kisses to each knuckle, but every fiery spark that shot through his stomach couldn’t distract his theory. It was cruel that they didn’t have each other sooner.

“Turn here,” he sighed, pointing away from the supermarket that held his parents’ prized groceries.

“But the marshmallows—”

“—can wait,” Mickey said, waving his hands to keep Ian from slowing down. “There’s something I want you to see. When you get to the end of the street, hang a left. It’ll take us home.”

“Southside?”

“Mhm.”

“That’ll take over an hour, what about your dads?”

Mickey shifted in his seat, fussing with the collar of his jacket. “Drive the car, man. Let me worry about that.”

\----------

Mickey thought about it too. If he wasn’t snoring in his stale, natural disaster of a bedroom, or doing his family’s bidding, he was roaming the streets in search of peace. He wasn’t a shut in by any means. Nobody cared what he did with his free time unless it infringed on their plans, and he was a loyal worker bee. He did his part to keep the lights on and the patriarch content. It was asking for trouble, hanging around the house too long. Mickey caught a beating here and there when Terry blacked out with rage, but only to protect his siblings, and never for any genuine reason. Well, aside from that night.

It was incredible how dramatic the change of scenery was, the closer they got. Even the trees looked dehydrated and depressed. Streetlamps flickered against the night, casting shadows on stumbling drunks at bus stops, and rowdy teenagers seeking to vandalize whatever was still standing. There were obvious attempts at renewing the neighborhood, littered among buildings for lease, and boarded-up shops. Somehow, they both smiled.

He led Ian through the back streets, white knuckled on the dashboard as he watched the prison of his childhood approach.

“Stop.”

“Here?”

“Yeah. Park, but don’t turn the car off. Keep the headlights on.”

Ian steered the Porsche flush to the curb, careful not to bump the tires against jagged cement. He leaned forward to scan the street, most homes still erect, a few repainted. You wouldn’t walk alone at night without a blade in your pocket, but when the sun came up, you might play ball in the street, or do flips on a second-hand trampoline with rusted springs if bullets weren’t flying.

He pointed across the road with a heaving breath, redirecting Ian’s gaze. “Look familiar?”

“The house in your painting.”

“Home sweet home,” Mickey grieved, bile creeping up at the back of his tongue. “My grandfather owned this house. Raised Terry and my uncles in it. Piece of shit has been in the family for ages.”

“Did he build it?”

“Who?”

“Your grandpa.”

It stunned Mickey to find he didn’t know. There was never an appropriate time to ask, and if he inherited the dump himself, he’d set fire to it, anyway.

“No clue, man. Never asked.”

Ian nodded toward a derelict ramp wedged onto the small property just to the side of the front steps. “Accessibility adds some value, right?”

It engrossed Mickey, figuring out why a ramp existed to begin with. The device wasn’t necessary when he left, and it was his first time back since it all went down. It didn’t take long to figure it out, after light bled through the darkness of the slipshod front yard, exposing a silhouette of a thin man, struggling to heave the wheels of his chair through the door frame. Distance and semidarkness blurred his face, but those hands—they were impossible to mistake.

“Mick?” Ian whispered, squaring his shoulders in the driver’s seat.

The man swore into the night, angry words muffled through the windows of the car. He tossed his upper body side to side, rocking the wheelchair over what seemed to be strenuous obstacles in his path, jolting toward the unsteady ramp. It froze Mickey in place, like it wasn’t him in the passenger seat. And the shell of a man he’d grown to fear wasn’t his father.

Ian gave a gentle tug at the elbow of Mickey’s jacket, his arms outstretched on the dashboard to prevent being pulled from the car and forced back into his childhood. 

“Wanna grab a bite at Patsy’s? My treat,” Ian offered, eyebrows knitted together as he worried his bottom lip.

“That’s him.”

Before Ian had the chance to respond, the wheelchair careened off the edge, crashing into the eroded fence, sending the man sprawling onto the frozen ground with a painful cry. Ian flinched but didn’t move, one hand gripped on the steering wheel like he might add salt to the wound and crush the man with the luxury vehicle they should have returned an hour ago.

Mickey pondered for a moment, as the man who almost took his life, gripped at the icy fence with pink fingers, weakened by an obvious lack of muscle mass, half the size of the man he once was. Mickey should leave him there. With one word, he knew Ian would pull out, and they’d be down the road, leaving the asshole to succumb to the frost bite and misery he deserved. He shocked them both by unbuckling his belt and jogging across the street.

“Fuck this fucking cock sucking ramp,” Terry spewed, clouds of icy breath shooting from his mouth as he panted. “Christ—fuck!”

“Hey pops.”

Terry’s body went limp as his angry glare dissipated. “M-Mickey?”

Ian ran up behind him, tire iron at his side, hot breath at the back of his neck giving him strength. He didn’t speak. But he was there, and that was all Mickey needed.

“Need a hand?” Mickey asked, sincerity in his voice, pity dripping at the edges.

“It’s this fucking porch. Ramp don’t fit right—porch is all busted up. Can’t get the damn wheels across. Damn near kill myself every time I try.”

Mickey bent down, hooking himself under the crooks of Terry’s arms, the redhead skirting around them to grab the wheelchair and steady it on the slippery sidewalk. Mickey didn’t break a sweat; the man was only the bones and flesh of his past transgressions, torn winter coat hanging loose around his frame.

“Thanks for the lift, kid. I tell ya—this ain’t the easiest place to lose your legs.”

The man let out a humorless laugh, eyes darting from his withered knees and shriveled calves to his son, towering above him. His gaze moved to the stronger man at his side, slipping his fingers through Mickey’s, glowering down at the person responsible for every shard of trauma that addled his mind.

“Who’s your friend?” Terry asked, the deep lines of homophobic rage once alive and dangerous, now sagging on his face with the rest of him. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

“This is my boyfriend, Ian.”

“Figured,” Terry muttered, gnawing at his top lip, avoiding eye contact by fumbling with the torn padding of his arm rests. “It’s good you got someone—uh, y’know—sharin’ your life with and whatnot.”

Mickey couldn’t put the pieces together. A disconnection to every nerve and each limb would not change his views on what made his son filthy. He wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. Ian kept quiet, his presence louder than words.

“You hear anythin’ from Iggy or your sister?” Terry asked, breaking up the uncomfortable silence. “Ain’t heard from either of ‘em for years.”

It brought Mickey immense relief. His siblings, no matter what condition they were in out in the world, were safer than they’d ever be with Terry. “Mandy’s with me. Lost touch with Ig, but he was doing good in the joint—trying to keep his nose clean.”

The man nodded; sadness etched in his sunken eyes. “They don’t want nothing to do with me. Guess I got what was coming. Good to hear they’re still alive.”

“No thanks to you,” Ian blurted, sending Mickey’s heart into frantic pumps of adrenaline.

He expected his dad to lash out, defend himself. Instead, he shrunk further in his chair. “It’s what I gotta live with. Doc says I won’t be doin’ much more of that though. All them bottles caught up to me, Mick. Cirrhosis of the liver is what they call it. Don’t hit that shit too hard or you’ll end up mangled and yellow like me.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Ian gripped his hand tighter.

“Pharmacy’s gonna close—gotta pick up my meds. Let’s get coffee or somethin’, if you guys are up for it. Catch up on where the fuck you’ve been. Looks like life’s been good to ya.”

He looked to Ian for guidance. His mind was too blank to decide. Without Ian, he thought his feet might freeze to the sidewalk, earning him a permanent spot in a neighborhood he could do without.

“Not this time,” Ian said, allowing the air to fill Mickey’s lungs once again. “You take care of yourself, Terry.”

There was a finality to it. There wouldn’t be a next time.

“You sure? They got a new spot, cheap enough that I don’t gotta steal nothin’, but it ain’t a dive.”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Mickey barked, yanking his hand from Ian’s, expressing himself better. “I feel bad for you, man. You're pathetic, shriveled up like a deathbed on wheels. You think I’m going to _what_ —reminisce with you over a cup of joe? Roll yourself off a cliff, you prick.”

“Eh, I didn’t ask you to come. I left you alone.”

“You tried to fucking kill me because I didn’t like tits. If it weren’t for my parents, I’d be in a fucking wheelchair right there beside your sorry ass.”

Terry wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, faded finger tattoos hidden in wrinkles. “An eye for an eye, right?”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“You think I showed up at the door at two in the mornin’ and broke my own legs? Shattered my spine? You got your retribution. I shit myself fifteen fuckin’ times a day.”

Ian grabbed the back of his jacket, keeping him from lunging at the pitiful asshole. “I didn’t do this to you.”

“Nah, but someone out there was riding for you. Told me if I ever fag bashed again, they’d finish me. What else you want, kid? I fucked up and I’m payin’ the price.”

“Mick, let’s go.”

“No, you know what, Terry? This shit doesn’t bring me any satisfaction. I’m not a heartless piece of shit like you, and even if you kept me trapped here, I never would be. I was born into this fucked up family, but I’m not your son. This isn’t my house, you’re not my dad. You taught me all the things I never wanna be, and one day I’m gonna raise a son of my own, and he won’t know you. We won’t carry your fuckin’ legacy or your memory. Your karma is that you’ll die alone, nobody to remember you. _That’s_ my retribution.”

He took a few steps backward, Ian’s arm sliding across his shoulder with a grin.

“Fuck you, Terry,” Mickey shouted, leading them back to the car.

They peeled down the road, tires screeching as they gripped the icy street, leaving his past in the dust. He laughed. Stomach clenching stitches at his sides. Maniacal laughter, tears slipping from his eyes from the sheer pressure of it all. He wiped at his cheeks with the palms of his hands, throwing himself back in the seat to catch a breath between chortles.

Somewhere along the way, his tears transformed into something different.

\----------

Ian pulled off the road, concealing them under the L.

Mickey’s body shook against a flood of heartbreak, hiding his face in his hands, dampness spilling through his fingers as he tried to suppress his sobs. Ian blinked back the tears stinging his own eyes, pressing his hand between Mickey’s shoulder blades, rubbing him there, letting him be what he needed to be. Ian wanted to fall apart, but he understood that what his partner was experiencing was so much worse, and the dam was long overdue for a forceful break.

“I—I don’t even know why I’m crying, man—so fucked up,” he whimpered, letting Ian hold his tear soaked hand. “Sorry, Gallagher. This is not what I had in mind.”

“No, don’t apologize. It’s okay.”

“Come on, I should have left him there on the ground. This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s _because_ you helped him you are nothing like him. Look at me, Mick.”

He stayed buried in his hands, hunched over like he couldn’t bear the Southside to see him fall apart. Ian wondered if this was the first time he had ever let himself cry in this neighborhood. The years he held all that pain inside must have been tremendous.

Ian scanned the area, some passersby in the distance, a homeless man huddled around a bonfire, rubbing his hands together to ward off the winter chill. At his feet was a guitar case. He squinted to see if there was anything inside, but it was too far away to tell. The case looked nice enough, bearing a stolen, or a treasured instrument. It might be a vessel to carry his smelly belongings. He wasn’t sure it was worth the time he’d have to leave his boyfriend’s side.

“I’ll be right back,” Ian said, glimpsing Mickey’s face.

“Where you goin’?” he snuffled, reaching out to grab a fistful of Ian’s coat.

“Trust me, okay? I’ll be just over there—you’ll be able to see me the entire time.”

He rifled through his wallet, a crinkled coupon, a photo of his niece, five hundred in cash. The man huddled over the barrel watched him approach with caution, bearing a toothy grin when Ian pointed at the case by his feet.

“You play?”

“Yes sir! I’ll play you anything for a sandwich and a cup of tea!”

He grabbed the guitar by its neck, slinging the strap over his shoulder, the instrument plastered in stickers and random scribblings. Someone got their money’s worth, but it was a simple model, regardless. The strings needed replacing, and judging by the condition, he’d be able to buy several guitars and a week’s worth of sandwiches with what Ian offered.

“I was sorta hoping I’d buy it from you.”

“Oh. Um, you sure? It’s kinda crappy.”

“Would you take five hundred for it?”

The man’s eyebrows shot to his forehead with a chuckle. “You kidding?”

“No,” Ian assured, holding the cash in his hand between them. “It’s an emergency.”

“It’s yours, stranger! Whoa, you have no idea the stroke of luck this is for me. You want the case too?”

The case was more valuable than the instrument itself, and he expected the man would replace the guitar at some point if he was out in the cold busking for a hot meal. “You hang onto it. Get yourself a nicer one.”

Ian made it back to the car where Mickey gawked at him like he’d returned with an extra head. He was careful not to scratch the interior, sliding the case into the backseat.

“You did not just pay that homeless guy for this piece of shit,” Mickey tittered, wrinkling his nose at the ridiculous accumulation of stickers, no doubt hiding the damage to the wood.

“Forgot mine at the house.”

“How fucking much did you dole out?”

“It was nothing.”

“Ian—”

The engine fired to life, bright headlights exposing the hidden places the L offered to the least fortunate. “Five hundred.”

“You’re about to make me steal cash from a homeless man—are you serious?”

“It’s my turn to take us down memory lane.”

\----------

The ballpark was a stone throw from their spot under the L, and before long, Ian was climbing over the fence that protected it from only the laziest of the Southside, guitar at his back. Mickey stood at the bottom, arms akimbo, refusing to entertain his impulses. Ian paid him no mind, hopping down on the other side, pressing his face up against the chain link like a love struck teen.

“Come on, scaredy cat,” Ian taunted, trying to poke Mickey through the links of the fence.

“Who you callin’ scaredy cat?”

Ian mocked him, offensive chicken noises and terrible impressions of a bird pecking the ground, long, muscular arms flailing about. How he, Mickey Milkovich, fell for such a total moron, was the real question of the night.

“You think you’re so cute,” he groaned, glancing back to make sure nobody had jacked his parent’s car. “Get back here, will ya?”

“Nope. It’s my turn, remember?”

In another universe, Ian and Mandy would be perfect for each other. They were insufferable in their pursuit of romantic gestures.

“Jesus Christ, fine. You got me wrapped around your finger, Gallagher.”

Ian’s laugh echoed with childlike innocence. “Hurry. I miss you already.”

Mickey’s cheeks stung, giddiness replacing every remnant of his pain as he climbed the fence, palms of his hands cold as ice against metal. Ian plopped down in the middle of the field, and by some miracle, the overhead lights at the edge of the arena were bright enough to deter potential car thieves, though his gaze found its way to the Porsche more than once.

“You’re gonna freeze your ass off, get up,” Mickey ordered, shrugging off his jacket. “Don’t need you catching your death out here.”

“Says the guy taking off his coat. The ground isn’t even wet, Mick. See?”

“Your destination, my terms. Up.”

Ian’s stubborn resolve was no match for his, but it was close. The temperature wasn’t favourable, but they hadn’t quite landed at the dead of winter yet. Mickey could handle a few minutes without his jacket if it meant Ian didn’t have to sit on frigid ground. It didn’t stop the redhead from sitting at the very edge of the insulated fabric, so they could share, while his freckled fingers made adjustments to the strings.

He strummed as he tuned, humming low in his throat. Chicago could submerge them in ice water, and that sound would keep him warm. Mickey recognized that relationships were imperfect arrangements, and that even two influential people could become something less than admirable under the thumb of the other, but it baffled him that Ian hadn’t already found his life partner. A man would be empty-headed letting him go.

Ian sang.

“ _Yellow diamonds in the light_

_Now we’re standing side by side_

_As your shadow crosses mine_.”

“Rihanna? Oh my god—you _are_ Mandy.”

Ian’s grin reached his eyes. He turned the upbeat song into a slow tempo, fingers finding each string like a magician, locking his gaze with Mickey until his insides simmered. The strumming continued, like a band on stage waiting for the lead singer to find their lungs.

“You gonna sing it with me, Mick?” Ian asked, waggling his brows. “I know you want to.”

He plucked the strings, tapping on the side of the guitar as he went, cheeks pink as raspberries, the tip of his nose rising to the occasion against bitter cold.

“You are _hell bent_ on turning me into a sucker, aren’t you?”

“ _What it takes to come alive_ ,” Ian sang, stretching one leg out in front of him, angling himself to be as close to Mickey as he could with a guitar between them.

“I’m not doing it,” Mickey stated. “I will not.”

“ _It’s the way I’m feeling I just can’t deny_.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“ _But I’ve gotta let it go_.”

“Fat chance,” Mickey snorted, butterflies multiplying in his rib cage, threatening to explode through his abdomen. He wasn’t the one who got to fall in love with the perfect guy.

“ _We found love in a hopeless place_

 _We found love in a hopeless place_.”

Ian’s voice carried through the field, and when Mickey closed his eyes, the stands were overflowing with people, teams waiting with their bats in hand, like Ian was singing the national anthem, everyone holding their hats to their chest in respect. He made the darkness fade away, made the grass warm and vibrant, made him forget that a love like theirs could ever face malice. Ian pushed him out of his comfort zone, pulled him back in when he could see it was too far. It was love.

He loved Ian.

So, when the chorus came back around, he sang, off key, and free.

“ _We found love in a hopeless place_.”

\----------

They brought home an extra bag of marshmallows, and The Campbell’s favourite snacks to compensate for the hours they spent on the Southside. Nobody hassled them when they stumbled through the door, but they kept the lights on and put on another movie to wait up for their arrival. They weren’t children anymore, but parental instinct didn’t end with age.

Mandy had disappeared into the cabana, and though they wanted to wrap themselves together in the sheets to come down from their high, Mickey needed to tell his sister what happened. He owed her that much. Ian didn’t mind hanging back with his folks while they talked in private.

Rhett excused himself, the early bird he was, pulling Ian into a hug before disappearing up the stairs. Malachiah patted the leather sofa next to him, inviting Ian to join him.

“How are things on the Southside?”

“Ah, Mickey told you already?”

“He texted on the way back. I didn’t expect him to head out that way.”

Ian scratched at the cuff of his shirt. “I’m sorry we didn’t think it through and fill you guys in beforehand. It wasn’t cool to take your car so far out.”

“Nonsense. I appreciate the sentiment, but I trust my son, and I trust you.”

That was foreign to Ian, too. His family wasn’t terrible. Affection was abundant between them, and if the night had gone another way, he would have welcomed a surprise visit. Trust was off the table. Fiona counted his pills years after he’d accepted responsibility for his treatment.

“We ran into Terry,” Ian confessed, the information standing like a palpable wall between them. “It was intense.”

Malachiah sat forward, rubbing at the frown on his forehead. “It would be. Khail hasn’t seen him since the trial, as far as I know.”

“Trial?”

“Have they told you what happened?”

He took Ian’s silence as an answer, standing from the couch, and motioning for Ian to follow him.

Malachiah unlocked the door to his office, books lining the shelves to either side, various trophies and achievements accenting each Anthropologie furniture piece, hand picked by an interior designer. A photo of Mickey sat at one side of his computer monitor, Mandy at the other, a family photo of them enlarged on the wall behind him.

A drawer slid open with a thud, the man producing a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and a brown folder.

“How do you take your scotch, Ian?”

“I don’t,” Ian admitted, hands folded in his lap. “Try not to drink on my meds. I’m um—bipolar. But I drink beer sometimes, it’s not so bad if I go easy on it.”

Malachiah reached into the mini-fridge for a bottle of sparkling water. “No shame in that, son.”

“Thanks. Your office is beautiful.”

“I spend more time in here now.”

“Lawyer?”

“Good guess, but I’ve met too many snakes in the grass in my day. Physical therapist. That’s how I met Rhett—at the hospital. Spent the rest of my career in sports medicine, treating athletes.”

Ian was lucky to land a decent paying gig more than twice a week. “Wow. Explains the house.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Don’t let it intimidate you. I only retired early because I needed time to work on my mental health.”

“I’m renting a room right now, it’s smaller than this,” Ian said, twisting the lid off his bottle with a hiss. “Once I graduate, I’ll have more to offer. It’s touch and go right now.”

“Is your interest in my son touch and go?”

“No, not at all. I’m um, crazy about him. Wished I’d met him sooner.”

He replayed his answer in his head as Mickey’s dad prepared his glass of scotch. It was honest, but a sudden flash of panic washed over him. This was an exam he wanted to score bonus points on.

“Sounds like it’s getting serious.”

Ian swallowed the lump in his throat, brooding and desperate to turn his voice into a croak. He thought he had it all figured out. In his late twenties, with no one around, he was the oldest he’d ever been, and with that came an air of wisdom. In front of Malachiah, sitting on his plush chair, drinking expensive water gained from years of respectable business, he was young and a touch naïve.

“I hope so. It was fast, y’know? But I met him and all that stuff they tell you about meeting your soulmate didn’t seem so out of reach. It’s weird, but something clicked, and I couldn’t get him out of my head.” He took a deep breath. “You mentioned mental health—everything okay?”

“I’m making my way through it. Before I started sports therapy, I was working with many people, helping them regain their strength, and sometimes, their ability to function at all in the world. That’s where most of my troubles come from. Which brings me to this,” Malachiah said as he tapped on the folder. “The adopted fruit of my loins.”

The paperwork was long winded legal jargon, but a photo attached to a document labelled _evidence_ made his stomach drop. It was Mickey, attached to machines, a tube down his throat, bruises, and swollen eyes, almost unrecognizable. The statement was harder hitting and made his head spin, taken from Mandy at the scene. Guilt washed over him as he read her detailed recollection of the incident, like maybe he shouldn’t be in so far to something so private.

“This is horrific. I should’ve destroyed that asshole,” Ian seethed, flipping the page, and reading Mickey’s prognosis. “Sorry. This is just—I can’t believe it.”

“No need. I’m infuriated at the reminder myself.”

“He couldn’t walk or feed himself when he woke up?”

Malachiah poured himself another glass of scotch to sooth his tense throat. “Had to learn to speak again, dress himself, everything. They called Rhett to the ICU when he first came in. Didn’t leave his side. Spent most of his nights at the hospital for months, just to keep a close eye. They brought me in on the case when he wasn’t making progress.”

Ian couldn’t control the shiver raking over his body, his sight blurring at the image. “He recovered.”

“He did,” the man smiled, pointing to a canvas hanging over the mantel of his fireplace. “The methods they used to get him on his feet weren’t working, because what suited him wasn’t in a medical textbook. Art saved his life.”

“You saved his life,” Ian whispered, overwhelmed with sadness that any person could have a parent so violent. “He was lucky to find you. I feel like I should thank you, but that’s super awkward, right?”

He smirked. “Rhett and I were saying the same thing about you, Ian.”

“What are you sappy shitheads gabbing on about?” Mickey interrupted, closing the office door behind him. “Mandy’s over the moon ‘cause she just beat her high score, but I told her _she’s_ the pinball—”

Mickey stopped in his tracks, stiffening at the paperwork in Ian’s hands. “Why, Malachiah?”

“Son—”

“Why the fuck are you and Mandy meddling like this? I’m not some broken dumpster kid, I don’t need you scaring Ian off.”

“Mick, I’m not scared.”

“Great, so now you’ll feel obligated to stick around. I’m not that kid anymore. That was a long ass time ago, I’ve moved on. That prognosis shit is all wrong, I figured it out. I’m a new person. That shit is so far removed now, it’s like another lifetime.”

“I know, son,” Malachiah soothed, holding his hand in front of himself to speak. “If Ian is a part of the family, he should understand how integral certain aspects of your life are.”

“Are you my dad or my doctor?”

“That’s not fair, Khail.”

“Look, we get it, okay? Terry abused Mickey, don’t anybody shout too loud, or slam the cupboards too hard, or forget to fill his paint cans. Mickey gets nightmares and cries in his sleep, so let’s all walk on eggshells, so he doesn’t regress back to the emotionless asshole he was.”

“Sit down,” Malachiah bellowed, kicking the legs of the uninhabited chair from underneath his desk. “Now.”

Mickey dropped on the chair with a huff; shoulders slumped in objection.

“You are my child, Mikhailo. I don’t care if you’re fifteen or forty. It is my job to look out for you and your sister and protect you both. All these years, you’ve never brought a man home, so I assume you’ve chosen Ian for a reason. Our family is unique. I didn’t find you and your sister on the doorstep, or hand pick you from a nursery. We’ve walked a challenging path, you and I.”

“Why does that mean Ian has to see the damn police files?”

“Because you have suffered enough. He shared with me you visited Terry, and it seemed fitting. I expect any man who comes into your life to care for you, and he can’t do that if you hide the most crucial facts. Fight over who does more around the house. Argue over who forgot to pay the power bill. Sleep on the couch because one of you was insensitive about the cute guy down the block. Don’t lose a golden opportunity to spend your life with someone because Ian crossed a boundary you weren’t honest about and it sends you into a spiral. I know you like the back of my hand. I want you to be successful in more than your career.”

Malachiah leaned back in his chair, the squeak of leather filling an otherwise silent space. Ian wondered if he should sneak out and leave them to talk, but he discovered the tension in the room had molded his extremities into marble.

“You cry in your sleep?” Ian asked, an anxious laugh escaping his lips as both men gave him their full attention. “I’m told I fart in mine. That’s disastrously worse, I’d say.”

Mickey dropped his head to his chest, shoulders bouncing. Malachiah’s laughter followed, handing his son a glass of scotch. They clinked their glasses together, shaking their heads. And what once seemed like a mountain was a mole hill.

“Did Khail tell you he refused to let us pay for school?”

“He did not,” Ian said with mock astonishment.

“I let you guys pay for my skydiving courses.”

“You realize we’re leaving our estate and every dime to you and Mandy, right? No use being humble.”

Ian kicked his feet up on Mickey’s lap. “Rich parents—and I thought I had hard knocks.”

\----------

Mandy’s blonde hair curled at the edges, sweat dripping down her cheeks as she wailed at the scoreboard, bells and alarms making a racket. She slammed her palms on the glass, reminding the pinball machine who was boss.

The cabana was suitable to be a full sized home, without the property they attached it to. A galley kitchen equipped with state-of-the-art appliances, and Brazilian cherry countertops, took up a generous portion, but the primary space was still expansive enough for a group of people to congregate. Pinball machines and an air hockey table didn’t cramp up the room like it would in most modern dwellings. A massive flatscreen television towered above the room, mounted for optimal viewing, a skookum sound system wired flush against textured white wallpaper. It was too classy to be a man cave, and Ian would be proud to own something half as sumptuous.

“Stop that, you’re gonna break it,” Mickey warned, his sister blaming the machine once again for her less than exemplary final score.

“Not like they can’t afford to replace it,” she countered, grunting at the miserable sound it made when her ball fell between the paddles. “Who needs this many options, anyway?”

“You’re spoiled.”

“And you are forever in denial that our parents are rich as fuck.”

Ian peeked in the fridge, full to the brim with snacks and drinks he could afford if he sold himself on the street corner to a family of equal wealth. He grabbed a neatly wrapped charcuterie board, helping himself to a stack of meat and cheese.

“That’s my favourite,” Mickey said, sliding in beside him to indulge. “Place in town puts these together. Nobody does it as good.”

“Sorry—I’m starving,” Ian tittered, cheeks stretching with delight.

“What’re you apologizing for? Enjoy, man. They send us home with whatever we don’t finish. Want me to make you something?”

“You’ll cook for Ian, but you bitch when I ask you to boil water for mac and cheese?” Mandy pouted, shoving past them to grab a drink. “Disgrace.”

“Eh, we’re only out here ‘cause you’re afraid of a bunch of arcade machines.”

“Funny coming from the guy who made dad climb the roof at midnight because the plastic owl was staring at you.”

Ian couldn’t contain his amusement. “Begs the question, what is a plastic owl doing on the roof?”

“Scares birds away. Keeps rabbits and shit out of the garden,” Mickey said, giving his sibling a shoulder check. “You hated it just as much as I did.”

Ian ate so fast it bloated his stomach, listening to the two of them carry on comparing notes. Mandy handed him a beer to wash it all down with before he meandered to the washroom. Another stunning example of fortune. He took his nighttime meds, and freshened up in the sink, drowsy from a long and emotional day.

Mandy propositioned her bedroom for their troubles, a king suite with a TV of its own, but they settled on unfolding the sleeper sofa in the front room. She’d wiped herself out practicing for Olympic pinball, topped with emotional exhaustion. A space to hide away without glaring characters staring down at her would offer more rest. She threatened them with kitchen utensils if they fucked too loud and closed her door to their middle fingers.

“Got a game of pinball in ya, Red?”

“Don’t think I’ve ever played.”

“No way! You didn’t hit up an arcade growing up?”

With a shrug, he examined the lineup. “Jurassic Park one is neat.”

“You like dinosaurs?” Mickey asked, a slight smile accenting the quirk of his brow as he fired it up.

Ian made himself useful, setting up their bed for the night, shaking out a stack of fresh linens to tuck over the mattress. “Dinosaurs are cool. My brother Liam liked them, I must’ve read a hundred books out loud.”

The machine chimed and thwacked, whistles blaring out as the ball ricocheted against random barriers, springing the ball to another stream of noises. If Mandy got a wink of sleep, it was worthwhile having her hearing tested.

“C’mere,” Mickey called over his shoulder. “I’ll teach you.”

Mickey tried standing behind Ian but had to switch places to instruct from a vantage point he could see. Ian snuggled up to him, hands on top of Mickey’s as he directed the metal ball causing it to whizz all over the obstacle course. The game was a novelty he enjoyed, but the scent radiating from his boyfriend was a hindrance on his focus. His perfect ass pressed against his crotch wasn’t helping matters.

He placed harmless kisses on Mickey’s shoulder, the jerking of his body as he slammed the buttons giving Ian incongruous thoughts. His intentions were wholesome at first, and Mickey seemed to translate them that way, tittering when his stubble tickled his neck.

“Know what I like more than dinosaurs?” Ian cajoled, a wandering hand sliding up Mickey’s thigh. “If you get it in three guesses, I might even show you.”

Mickey grinned, tilting his head for Ian to gain better access to his earlobe, without taking his eyes off the game. “Bet I can get it in one.”

“Cocky.”

“Is that a hint?” Mickey asked with a smirk, an achievement sending several metal balls onto the course at one time, the numbers on the scoreboard rising with celebratory jingles.

Ian leaned in close, nibbles on his earlobe and neck becoming hungrier. “Fuck me, Mick.”

Just like that, the machine sang its disappointment, Mickey’s sudden neglect plummeting his score. He turned with one swift movement, hands in Ian’s hair, tugging him down.

“I’ll never tire of hearing you say that Gallagher. So fuckin’ hot.”

“Thought you might like that one.”

“Don’t think I have any—provisions—out here.”

Ian’s days of reckless behavior with his body were long behind him, a bill of sexual health to prove it. Lube was a trickier issue to remedy. “I’m clean, I can show you—have it on my phone.”

“I trust you,” Mickey murmured, fingers slinking up the back of his shirt. “Me too—clean.”

“Think Mandy has any lube?”

“Gross,” Mickey winced, sticking his tongue out in revolt. “But I’ll ask.”

“It’s a house of gay men, right? There has to be another option.”

He ignored Ian’s plea, and two drawers into his search, Mickey was back with an unopened bottle of something far too flavoured to come in handy twice.

“She’s asleep, but I found this. Where do you want me?” Mickey’s eyebrows bounced and the way he bit the tip of his tongue made any reservations fall to the floor.

Ian could fill a book with how sated he was when Mickey was playful. Sex wasn’t fun before him. It was becoming the highlight of their intimacy, and not for obvious reasons. It was special to be naked with someone, and not have to worry about the angles, or which direction words fell. Mickey would keep him safe from harm, and in a relationship, that included judgment.

“I love you,” Ian breathed, heart racing in his chest. “I—I keep thinking it, and not saying it—waiting for the right time, y’know? And it’s cool if you don’t yet. Or ever. But I hope you do some day ‘cause that would suck—I’d stick around though—if you’re worried I won’t. It’s unconditional—my love for you. Wow, that sounds corny as fuck—”

Mickey put a stop to his rambling, kissing him so hard they stumbled backward onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and adrenaline. A soft whimper escaped from Mickey’s throat, as their hands and legs scrambled to make contact, anywhere, everywhere.

Ian flipped them over, clothes whipping across the room as their fingers fought to reach bare skin, leaving scratches in their wake. Mickey bucked his hips against Ian, their arousal throbbing from their waist to their toes, wet trails on their navels from excitement, glistening, dripping at the tips of their erections. Breaths ragged, bodies writhing, they kicked the blankets and sheets further down the mattress. Mickey stopped long enough to reach down and grab them, enveloping them both in Egyptian cotton as he positioned himself on top of Ian, covered from what the windows could expose, wrapped together in the same velvet soft fabric.

Mickey spread his legs further apart, giving him silent permission to explore. Ian let his fingers dance along Mickey’s spine, and the bumps of every scar, taking his time to pay homage to a body so tantalizing in its imperfections. His fingers traced the contours of Mickey’s ass, the dimples of his lower back, then between his cheeks, a quiver sending him closer to Ian’s chest. He leaned up to taste Mickey’s tongue, relax him as he flipped open the cap of the lube, coating his fingers and pressing them inside, one by one.

He crooked his fingers, searching for that spot, the nerves that made Mickey quake at his touch. When he reached them, he slowed his pace, dragging, rubbing, moaning his approval so Mickey could understand just how badly he ached to flood him with pleasure.

“F—fuck me,” Mickey whimpered, strings of arousal connecting them at the belly.

Ian gripped his hips, helping Mickey find his rhythm, teasing his entrance with the tip of his cock. When he couldn’t take it anymore, they slammed together in unison, Ian offering the palm of his hand for Mickey to bite down on, angry red marks tingling down his arm, groaning against his fingers, sliding Ian’s hand to his neck when his risk of screaming into the night had faded.

“Mickey—”

“Don’t you—fucking stop now,” he warned, gripping his cock, and pumping it as Ian squirmed and bucked beneath him. “You feel so damn good, Gallagher. Keep going— _keep going_.”

“Come on my chest,” Ian growled, crashing their bodies together, gripping the sheets with sweaty hands, tightening the surrounding fabric. “I’m gonna come.”

“Fill me up, Red.”

Ian grabbed a handful of Mickey’s hair, pulling him down to his lips, sharing the vibrations of their climax. They moaned into each other as they burst, spurts of warmth shooting up Ian’s chest as he filled his lover to the brink, pulsing inside him with every drop.

When he thought he’d never catch his breath again, Mickey kissed him, deep. Their tongues twisted and swiped, tingles raining over them.

“Mick, I love you so much. You don’t even get it.”

“Love you too, you big sap. Doesn’t sound like enough, does it? No words come close to the way I feel about you. But I do—so fucking much. I love you.”

They lay together, sticky, damp, and smitten. They panted, giggling at the mess they made, looking up at the sky light as the stars peppered the dark canvas.

And because it was fate,

And because destiny was real,

It snowed.

Giant, once in a lifetime flakes, falling all around them, melting as they graced the glass. All was well in the heart of Chicago, when Ian and Mickey were together, black and red, yin and yang.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep, turkey. You’ll need the energy for all the grub they’ll be shoving down your throat tomorrow.”

“Still gonna love me when I’m waddling?”

“Ian, I don’t got a choice in this. I’ll be loving you ‘till the end of time.”


	14. Sweet as Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's walls come down and get significantly messy in the same breath. Ian learns of an interesting new career option.

Mandy had perpetually ice-cold hands, and thus, an unpleasant habit of cranking the thermostat to the brink and forgetting to turn it back down. Mickey woke up with a sticky mouth, an ache in his lower back, and a six-foot something human heater clutched to his back. It was a miracle that he didn’t slip off the mattress like a fish from all their collective sweat. He might have, if not for Ian’s tree trunk thighs trapping his against the bed.

Ian’s quiet, throaty snores were the only source of moving air in the whole place. The redhead was a cuddler, far more eager to slide against him like a piece of Lego than Mickey had ever been. Snuggles had never existed as more than awkward moments of contrived intimacy with everyone but his sister, and even then, his tenderness wasn’t uninhibited.

Ian was like an all-inclusive vacation of attachment, without the overbearing desire to slither into every crevice of his life. Ian respected his boundaries with no guidance, and he was wondering if he’d mind the redhead burrowing deeper. It made his skin crawl that his ex used to appear out of thin air at every event he attended. The thought of Ian turning up unannounced in his most sacred hovels didn’t make him cringe. Mickey was ecstatic in his presence. It was becoming an open invitation.

He would perish from dehydration just to have Ian’s long fingers twitching against his skin as he slept, so perhaps he, too, had developed a penchant for cuddling. Mickey gazed at the freckles on Ian’s forearm, the soft hairs trailing along the etching of his muscles and flesh, subtly disappearing into the back of his hand. Mickey squirmed with measured agility, the gentlest motion, to kiss the bone on his boyfriend’s pale wrist. Ian’s hands were bigger, matching his body and his stance. But the depth that Mickey adored him, how fast he tumbled into enormous love, was a height that surpassed the redhead by miles.

“You smell good,” Ian murmured, clearing his sleep-congested throat, nuzzling himself behind Mickey’s ear. “I could get used to it.”

“I _feel_ like a bag of shit. Mandy and her vampire putters. It’s hotter than the hubs of hell.”

“Putters?”

“Her stupid feet. Blocks of ice in a volcano, seven days a week. You could put her in the oven on broil and she’d ask you to hand her a damn sweater.”

Ian snorted a breathy laugh, kissing Mickey’s shoulder blade before groaning through a stretch. Mickey rolled over to greet his slumberous lover, mussed hair and lines from the pillowcase imprinted at the side of his rosy cheeks. The daylight spilling through the sky light picked up on every speck of gold and blue in his otherwise staggering emerald eyes, making Mickey’s heart kick.

“You’re a mess,” Mickey teased, as the redhead burrowed deeper into the blankets, flailing his long legs to untangle the fabric.

“Mind your business, grumpy boy,” Ian quipped. “Would it gross you out if I kissed you right now?”

It sent a nervous jolt through his body, his heart giving another kick. Morning breath wouldn’t be the highlight of their relationship, but he’d sure as shit prefer it to waking up alone. “Why would it gross me out?”

“Well, if my breath is anything like yours right now—”

Mickey pulled the redhead to his chest, still wrapped in his blanket burrito, kissing the petal soft hair at the top of his head. The smell of strawberries lingered in the places Ian had been on the sheets, but it was like swinging a basket of freshly picked berries through a field, holding him so close.

“I can handle it.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Mickey hummed, placing a noisy kiss against the redhead’s temple, buying time to slow his heart rate. Ian’s fingers intertwined with his, tender and unhurried, causing Mickey to crave a fuller connection. “How’re you gonna kiss me if you stay all the way down there?”

“You say it like I’m not bundled right here, under your prickly chin.”

“Got something against my impressive beard, Gallagher?”

Ian tittered, sending bursts of vibration to his Adam’s apple. “You with a beard—now _that_ I’d like to see.”

“Well, now that I’m in love and shit, it’s about that time to let myself go, right?”

The redhead wiggled himself up to share Mickey’s pillow, their noses just inches away. “You’re in love, are you?”

Heat pooled at the pit of his stomach, trickling through his belly. He wanted to fill the air between them with playful banter, but somewhere along the way his voice turned spider quiet. “Like a puppy on Christmas.”

Green eyes softened, blinking to keep the tears building at the corners from spilling out. Their bodies went still, except for Ian’s chest heaving in gentle jerks, his emotions seeming to be as pervasive as Mickey’s.

“You okay, Red?”

“Is it weird that I panic when things in my life get good?”

He glanced through the bay windows at the dusting of snow falling from the roof ledge. It glittered in the breeze, brushed by morning sun. Mickey hadn’t noticed the beauty of it before.

“Not if you grew up in the same neighborhood we did, man.”

It didn’t sate him like Mickey hoped. Lines deepened between Ian’s brows as the gears turned in silence behind his eyes. Mickey wished he could peek inside his mind long enough to untangle his thoughts, separate the good from the bad, and toss any in the wind that left them without a hopeful ending.

“Is life getting good for you, Mick?”

“My life in general, or my life since you strummed your freckled way inside?”

Ian’s sleep-pink cheeks flushed deeper. “The last one.”

Mickey wanted the answer to be obvious, but after all the time he spent trying to escape his traumatic responses, he still let a defense mechanism slip every so often to protect his ego. Ian understood. It was why they could play like they did. But sometimes the redhead craved gentleness, and he was eager to be that for him.

“Life is getting so good right now, I don’t wanna blink.” 

There was a deep-seated swell in their longing to be closer, both men wrapping their arms tighter against the other. They closed the space between their bodies in second nature. Mickey checked in with Ian, the tremble of his bottom lip almost undetectable before that breath came. An inhale, a whisper of a hiccup, inviting him in. Their lips grazed with purpose, an immediate heat dipping Mickey in ginger ale, pouring over him like carbonation.

“When I asked you to fuck me last night, I meant it,” Ian whispered, low and dangerous, slipping his hands down Mickey’s boxers, squeezing his plump backside.

Curious fingers sent sparks up Mickey’s thighs, his instinct to widen the gap between his legs taking over. He wanted a glass of water and a shower, but somehow his desire overruled. Mickey didn’t think it was possible for the redhead to score low on any test requiring his hands, a delicious combination of nimble and firm, gripping and tickling his body with precision.

“I did. Almost broke the sofa, remember?”

“Sorry about that,” Ian tittered, hunger in his tone. “It was great. _You_ ,” he breathed, nipping kisses along his collarbone. “You were great.”

Mickey let his eyes roll back, Ian’s warm palm massaging him to full girth. Mickey’s voice shook beneath flashes of arousal, white heat building under his navel. “What’s the problem then, huh?”

Ian leaned in close, soft lips whispering at the edge of his ear, teasing, eager. “I wanna take it this time. Will you, _um_ —would you give it to me?”

Mickey’s skin tingled like he was on the brink of a fever. He wanted Ian in every way he could have him. Ian’s skilled hand jerking him under his boxers turned his mind blank, visions of the redhead’s swollen cock slapping against his toned belly while Mickey hit the spot was almost too much.

“Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

“Hard?” Ian whispered like they were humping against a shelf of literature and he didn’t want them to get caught by the horn-rimmed librarian. 

“Mm. That how you want it?”

The redhead nodded, sending electric heat fizzing through Mickey’s stomach, spreading down his legs and back up to his shaft. Ian leaned up on his elbow to stroke him faster, sheets slipping down and exposing their deeds. As his busy hand gained speed, they both glanced down at his assiduity. 

“Time and a place, Red. I’ll fuck you however you want it.”

“Mick—you look so hot right now, turning me on. Touch me. Rub my cock.”

Mickey chuckled, tension rising at the back of his neck. “ _Fuck_ , I like when you do that.”

“This?” Ian asked, a finger pressing and flicking against his tight rim just enough to engage his senses while he gave special treatment to his shaft. 

“ _That_ , and your chatty fuckin’ mouth.”

The redhead smiled against his neck, teeth and tongue taking turns giving him goosebumps. “You like my mouth, Mick?”

“Fuckin’ love it, man.”

“Wanna come in it?”

Mickey saw stars behind his eyelids, tremors of heat shooting through him. Orgasms spoiled him with such euphoria just before the limit, dripping with malevolence in its brevity. He wanted to shatter the windows with the pressure building in his throat. He wanted to scream his boyfriend’s name, resorting to clenching his teeth with shallow, shivering breaths.

“ _Shit_ , yeah—go, go, go.”

Ian tossed the blanket onto the floor, moving his body lower in a flash. Mickey squeezed the base of his cock, begging his body to wait, but he came like a rocket, the first spurt landing on Ian’s cheek, before the redhead sucked him down to savour the rest. Ian bobbed, cheeks hollowing around him, swallowing each burst with a grin.

They let out bashful laughter when Mickey’s quivers subsided, Ian kissing the head of his softening cock before sliding the band of his boxers back up.

“Sorry,” Mickey wheezed, the word squeaking from his tightened throat, hiding his face with his forearm. “Should have given you more warning.”

Ian wiped his cheek on Mickey’s stomach with a smirk, pupils blown out, damp hair falling across his forehead. “Roll over. I want that ass.”

A door down the hallway creaked, instigating a panic of bodies and blankets, desperate to conceal the scene of the crime, their panting breaths and flushed skin a dead giveaway.

Mandy huffed, stomping past them and into the bathroom. “You two horny freaks are sleeping in the house tonight. I hate you both.”

\----------

They filed through the sliding glass door to the main house, one by one, Mandy griping all the while about how unfair it was to be the only one on the property not getting plowed. It wasn’t like Mickey went literally years at a time without sex, while she traipsed around the apartment every other Saturday night, primping her hair for a date with some Tinder douchebag.

Water trickled down his back, soaking into his shirt. A certain sibling took it upon herself to use a full sized towel for each limb in the name of revenge after her shower. She all but hand-fed the redhead to him. But who doesn’t love the unjustified sentence of dripping dry on top of a hand towel for twenty minutes?

Rhett gave them a quick salute, phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder, frowning in confusion at the puddles bleeding into the fabric on Mickey’s shoulders. 

“I asked Alisha to leave you guys extra towels, sorry son,” Rhett whispered, pressing his palm over the mouthpiece of his phone to muffle their conversation. “I’ll remind her tonight.”

“It ain’t the housekeeper, Paps. It’s Crabby _Mc_ - _Shit-For-Brains_ over here,” Mickey snorted, jerking his thumb in his sister’s direction. “Needed a dozen towels for all her personalities.”

Mandy sent a gold trimmed accent pillow flying at his head, bouncing off him and onto the card table beside the couch, puzzle pieces raining down on them like confetti. It earned them both a disapproving click of the tongue from their father, gesturing to his phone as he jogged down the hall and away from their lawless battle cries.

“Jealous bitch.”

“Perverted little whore,” Mandy squawked, switching between prey and predator around the designer coffee table, using the wood and resin furniture piece as a buffer against Mickey’s swinging arms. “Who does that, Mickey? Who traps their beloved sister in her bedroom to wait out a ginger jizz storm?”

“ _Jizz storm_?” Malachiah blurted, interrupting their quarrel, and turning Ian a shade of red Mickey was more than thrilled to witness. “Why is the Grand Canal all over the carpet?”

“Princess Mandy of Envyshire threw a pillow at it.”

“I did not!” she squeaked, throwing up both middle fingers. “Mickey painted the cabana with his gay gravy.”

“Could you two _be_ any more absurd?” Rhett asked, returning to the anarchy with a lopsided grin before a more somber expression crossed his face. “That was the hospital. I’ve gotta run for a few hours. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“What’s going on?” Malachiah fretted, slipping an apron over his head. “NICU?”

“There was an accident on Interstate 55. All hands on deck. Have you seen my bag? Thought I left it in the foyer.”

“Did you check the closet downstairs?”

Rhett snapped his fingers. “The only place I haven’t looked! Will you lot be okay while I’m gone? Can we please clean this mess up before I get back and end up crying on my knees over the shrapnel that has become of Italy?”

Mandy gave him a squeeze. “Of course. Sorry we ruined your puzzle, Pappy. Be safe out there, okay?”

“Always,” he assured, racing to his husband’s side for a kiss, before taking off like a bullet down the driveway.

Malachiah smoothed his hands across his apron, bringing attention to the lettering at the front. Mickey caught Ian smiling at it, warming him from the inside out. _DON’T BE AFRAID TO TAKE WHISKS._ It was a gift he and Mandy got him for Father’s Day many years prior, one he wore with pride preparing every family meal. His parents were corny and over the top affectionate, but after a childhood of starving for love, it didn’t humiliate him to share it all with the redhead.

“So, what’s this I hear about you two exposing my pinball machines to inappropriate behavior?”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Mandy asked, waving her hands at the guilty party. “It was like a live action porno out there. I thought they were going to die from exertion.”

“Bitch, the heat would’ve killed us, anyway! Shoot me for wanting one last moment with my boyfriend before your sauna took us to our early graves.”

“You keep the thermostat too high, Mands,” Malachiah placated, waggling his brows at an already horrified redhead, donning the two Milkoviches in matching smirks. “Since Paps is on duty today, I’ll need help in the kitchen. You know your way around a stand mixer, Ian?”

“Can’t differ from mixing prosthetics, right?” Ian asked, relief at the pivot in conversation palpable. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“This time I’ll even let you lick the spoon,” Mickey teased, igniting an exaggerated gagging noise from his sibling and a roar of laughter from his dad.

“Daddy! Are you serious?” Mandy whined, shoving the two lovebirds into opposite sides of the kitchen. “You outnumber me, but your horny banter won’t poison me. You— _here_. And you,” she barked, finger gun aimed at her brother’s head. “I’ll beat you with this rolling pin if you come anywhere near us.”

“You don’t get to hold my man hostage, sis. Sorry, but that redhead is mine.”

“I’m serious, Mickey. You move, and I’ll tell Mr. Davis down the hall that you changed your mind, and you would in fact, _love_ to hear all about the devotion Jesus has for you.”

Malachiah tossed a chef hat across the kitchen island to Ian with a wink. “Get used to it, kid. These two are the human equivalent of ducks fighting over breadcrumbs at the park.”

“Hey!” the siblings exclaimed in unison, united once again. 

\----------

The muscles in Ian’s stomach ached from laughter.

It was miraculous that there was no blood relation between Malachiah and the angst twins. Their personalities were alike down to their last idiosyncrasy, brimming with sarcasm and wit. They were all talented culinarians, too. Ian couldn’t help but find Mickey’s impeccable chopping and sautéing skills alluring, despite trying to hide his hungry gaze from a militant Mandy, jabbing at his side to keep him from drooling or jumping across the marble island to kiss her brother into next week.

With enough food to supply every home on the Southside, his curiosity shook to the surface. He assumed they’d have a few extra guests at the dinner table at first, but when Mickey removed the ninth pie from the oven, he had to ask.

“Are you guys planning to feed an army?”

Malachiah dropped another basket of pastries into the deep fryer, grinning at his son. “Monitor these for me, I need to grab something from the garage. Give me a hand, Mandy?”

She nodded, handing Ian the bowl of cherries she was pitting, stealing one for herself and plopping it into her mouth with stained fingers. “Whatever you do, don’t get my brother pregnant in the same place we eat.”

“Mandy!” Malachiah warned, his voice carrying down the hall.

The kitchen was quiet for the first time all day. Mickey’s eyes drank him in by the gallon, the corner of his mouth turned up in satisfaction at the opportunity to be alone together, caramelized sugar and flaky dough heavy in the air. Ian shook the basket of pastries, the perfect shade of golden brown, letting the oil drip before Mickey wrapped his arms around his waist.

“No fair, my hands are busy.”

“That’s the point, Gallagher,” Mickey purred, nuzzling into the center of his back. “You heard my sister.”

“I’m offended you don’t want to have my baby,” Ian chuckled, shuffling through the kitchen with a Milkovich still fastened to his back, in search of a bowl to drop the desserts in. “Can you detach yourself for two seconds? I’m gonna drop these.”

Mickey grumbled, kneeling to grab a bowl from the cabinets. “You’re a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”

“You know you want a little redhead calling you daddy.”

“Already got one of those,” Mickey blurted, throwing his head back in chortles at the instant middle finger slicing the air.

“How are we going to eat all this food? There is no way you guys are going to finish all of this before next year.”

Mickey watched him with intensity as the pockets of warm fruit tumbled into the bowl. “Nah, man. Group home. We do it every year—take food over there.”

“You’re amazing, Mick.”

“You’re soft,” he responded, pulling Ian into his arms. “Ever been?”

“In a group home?”

Mickey nodded, ripples crossing his forehead. There was sadness forming on his mischievous features, and it left an ice pick in Ian’s chest.

“Once or twice. You?”

“No, which is a miracle, if you think about it. My brother spent most of his time in the system, though.”

“Iggy?”

“Yeah.”

Ian’s hand searched for the crook of Mickey’s neck, tracing the contours of his back, the fingers of his other hand tipping his chin up. “Can I meet him?”

“Fuck you wanna meet him for? He’s not what you’d expect, man.”

“Neither am I,” Ian murmured, breath frozen in his lungs, worried he might have pushed too far. “There’s no judgment here, Mick. I promise.”

They stood together; bodies interlocked in a sea of home-cooked entrees, the tile floor cool beneath their feet. Ian listened to the birds chirp in the distance, rustling of tree branches against the wind, as Mickey deliberated, blue eyes tinged with worry. 

“He wants to meet you.”

A firework burst in Ian’s stomach. “You told him about me?”

“Maybe.”

“When?”

“ _You_ are a nosey fucker,” Mickey scolded, shoving a handful of gooey pastry against Ian’s mouth, smearing it across his face, chunks of warm apple dripping down his chin.

“Real nice, Mick. Very mature.”

“Mm. Gonna get me back, or is your ass too slow, Gallagher?”

“Are you always such a child?” Ian asked, picking a chunk of the dessert off his shoulder, and sucking it from the tip of his finger. “Look what you’ve done.”

Mickey’s grin rivalled the decorative pendant lights hanging over the island, already putting a decent distance between them, predicting a counterattack. Mickey could only run for so long before Ian’s mental fortitude and longer legs forced him to surrender.

“C’mere, Mickey,” Ian taunted, scooping up the bowl of pastries and cradling the dish in his arm. “I’ve got somethin’ for ya.”

“Put the bowl down.”

“Payback is sweet, my friend.”

“ _Friend_?”

“Get over here,” Ian ordered, fighting against his urge to vaporize at the sight of Mickey’s frivolous grin.

He darted from side to side to mirror Mickey’s attempt at escape, chairs scraping against the floor as they swung around obstacles, laughter belting between them.

“Something tastes a little off—need your advice,” Ian lied, his slow, calculated movements making Mickey’s chest heave in anticipation.

“Bullshit, Red. I bake like a boss.”

“You sure? They’re a little bland,” Ian said, backing Mickey into the dining room just in time for a sneaky sibling to creep up behind him from the other side.

“Stay back. You don’t want the smoke, Gallagher. My bite is definitely worse than my bark.”

“I’ve seen your bite. Not so scary.”

“I’m warning you!”

Mandy wrapped her arms around Mickey’s shoulders, eliciting a shout of duplicity, trapping him in place just in time for Ian to squash a half dozen baked goods over his head. Syrup spilled down the ridge of Mickey’s nose, laughter booming through the house when Malachiah tossed his son a can of whipping cream, and a bowl of chocolate mousse to defend himself against the raid.

Mickey was agile, even with pie crust falling in his eyes. Before long, they splattered the dining room with every flavour Thanksgiving offered. The three of them transformed their hard work into a full on snowball fight, alternating between pinning each other down and hiding behind barricades. Mandy grabbed a white napkin from the table, waving it above her and Ian, who were both covered head to toe in various sweets, as Mickey held up his wooden spoon loaded with another scoop of mousse.

“Uncle!” Mandy cried, face red as a beet with laughter, almost unrecognizable under all the wasted desserts.

“You picked the wrong team, Mands. And _you_ ,” Mickey snickered. “Using my sister against me. You’re going to pay for that.”

“Is that a promise?” Ian taunted, pulling the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his face.

“What on earth?” Rhett boomed, turning the corner in pure shock, work bag slung over his shoulder. “What the hell is all over the walls?”

“Rhett—” Malachiah said, clamping his mouth shut when his husband held up his hand.

“Is that the trifle?” he asked, pointing in disbelief at the sherry soaked cake dripping from the chandelier. “Mikhailo Aleksandr, _what did you do_?”

Malachiah crept through the kitchen, sneaking up the stairs behind Rhett, remnants of their food fight not lost on the man. Before he made it halfway up, Rhett spun on his heels, the fury of a thousand suns in his eyes.

“Why is it _always_ you two?”

“Us two?” Malachiah gasped, feigning innocence from the stairwell.

“You and Mickey. I leave for a few hours and there’s whipped cream on the damn ceiling! We spent days making all this food.”

“This was my fault,” Ian confessed, despite Mickey shaking his head to deter him from speaking up. “I—I can pay to have someone come clean this all up. Or—I can do it. I’ll clean it up. You’ll never know it happened. I’ll run down to the grocery store right now, replace all the groceries.”

Rhett slammed his bag down in the hallway, storming through the dining room and into the kitchen. It gave them a moment to take it all in, the carpet, the tapestry. Crystal vases and silver candelabras smeared with cream and syrup, streaks of food on the otherwise spotless Chantilly lace wallpaper.

“Ian, get in here please,” Rhett called out, every pair of eyes a deer in headlights, including Malachiah, still observing from the stairwell.

Ian obliged, stepping over puddles of custard to avoid crushing the mess further into the carpet. Each step made a squishing noise, increasing his embarrassment ten fold. Mickey tried to follow, but Rhett called him out from instinct. He appeared to know his kids well, himself.

“Shut it down, Mikhailo. I’ll deal with you next,” he cautioned from the next room, Mandy moving to hold her brothers’ hand like they were six years old again.

The day had gone so well, it made Ian’s insides bubble in regret that he took part in one of the most adolescent things he may have ever done, and to a house so lavish. Not the twinkling impression he was going for, but a lasting one.

Rhett scanned the kitchen, shaking his head. Ian’s heart jack hammered in his chest at the evidence of his impulsivity spilling from the countertops. Food fights were a Gallagher activity, _not_ suitable for a Northside Chicago address. He swallowed the hard lump in his throat.

“Take this,” Rhett ordered, dropping a large container of potato salad into his arms. “Scoop with your hand, we’re running out of spoons.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ll grab the jar of relish.”

“Wait—”

Rhett winked, rolling up his sleeves. “You take the dining room, I’ll come from the other side.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a ten car pile up. Hurry, they’re still freaked out enough to give us a head start.”

\----------

The rest was history, written all over the main floor of the house.

Mandy retreated to the cabana to clean up, blonde hair matted like a feral cat, Mickey and Malachiah using the bathrooms upstairs to remedy the stench they had accumulated, emptying the refrigerator of anything worth catapulting. The way Rhett let his adult children chase him around the house like it was a normal occurrence to get pelted by foodstuffs, opened his mind to the staggering possibility that two wonderful parents could exist under the same roof.

Ian stacked enough food off to the side for the group home delivery, still more than he had ever seen one kitchen produce. Pies, cakes, pastries, and glass dishes full of traditional staples, safe from grabby hands.

Rhett stepped outside to hose off his feet and arms, skin pink against the frigid stream of water. Ian followed him out, waiting for Mandy to give him some respite in the cabana, still too anxious about tracking any food upstairs.

“Are you sure you’re not mad?”

Rhett leaned forward to rinse his hair, remnants of applesauce pooling in the frozen grass. “Ah, this is nothing to get angry over.”

“It looks like a bomb went off in there. I think there’s potato salad in the plants. Let me cover the cost of cleaning, at least.”

“Grab a chair, Ian,” Rhett said with a grin, sliding one out for himself.

They sat in silence for a few beats, clouds of mist spilling from their breath against a canvas of blue sky. Sunset painted the naked trees, casting shadows as the afternoon leaked into evening. Branches with greenery still attached were vivid green in the remaining sun, shimmers of frost gleaming across the winterized backyard.

Gardens protected by fabric, outdoor furniture with waterproof slipcovers, turquoise water of the in-ground pool shielded from debris. The sunlight highlighted the beauty of nature, and a nod to their wealth. The inhabitants of it could not be further from what Ian imagined.

“I don’t think I’ve heard them laugh like that,” Rhett mused, removing his glasses to rub his weary eyes. “Money just can’t buy moments like those, and believe me, we’ve tried over the years.”

“It was fun,” Ian said, shivering as the wind picked up. “My siblings—we had little money growing up, but we were always messing around like that back home. Helped us forget.”

“It explains your personality, Ian. Money can’t buy that either. It’s no surprise what drew my son to you.”

He itched for the pack of smokes in his pocket but thought better of it, padding his thigh for comfort. “Thanks. I’m sorry we wrecked your house. I feel awful about it.”

“Please don’t. I’m just grateful to come home to my family. All of this is replaceable—they’re just things, window dressings and overpriced materials. I won’t think about any of it on my deathbed. You know what I will think of, though?”

Ian laced his fingers together on the table, watching as Rhett slipped his glasses back on, demeanor shifting as the visions of his day eased with a deep breath.

“My kids. My husband. The way they laugh, how they love. _That_ matters. Throw cash at a house and they can clean it. Time, memories, they are far more expensive.”

“Was it a bad day at work today?”

He wanted to thump himself in the head when the words left his mouth. Under the kindness, the man seemed contrite and exhausted. Mickey’s family was growing inside Ian’s heart like the shadows on the lawn, and if it were too soon to ask for confessions of the personal variety, Ian was too invested to think it through. Rhett was Mickey’s dad, and Ian felt a debt of gratitude for him far beyond what they’d done to his fine furnishings.

Rhett sniffed against icy air. “Yes, it was. Par for the course in my field, but some days are heavier to carry than others. The kind that remind me of my kids.”

“Oh.”

The man nodded, leaning back to close his eyes for a moment.

“Does it happen a lot?”

“What’s that?”

“Everything that happened to Mickey and his sister. It’s not rare, is it?”

He wasn’t ready for the answer, but something in him was waiting for the information. Rhett took weighted breaths, turning to squint at him, the last hour of daylight stinging their sensitive retinas.

“Common in impoverished regions, but it happens everywhere, far too often.”

“That must be horrible to see.”

“Well, I don’t see the worst of it, technically. We have to piece them back together and patch their wounds, but it’s the paramedics and first responders who share the visceral trauma. That’s a job I don’t think I could handle.”

“Because they’re first on scene?”

“First on scene, first to witness their living conditions. The fear. They’re the first gentle hands most of these kids experience, sad as that may be. It’s not uncommon to lose our best EMT’s and paramedics to medical leave because of the impact of it all.”

“Do they have to be in the same room as the ones who caused the violence?”

“Sometimes,” Rhett whispered, turning his gaze to the fluffy clouds disappearing above him with the hushed promise of snowfall.

“I don’t think I could do it either. It would tempt me to drag them into the street,” Ian seethed, clenching his fists in his lap. “They deserve everything bad that comes their way.”

“It seems like the simple solution, doesn’t it? Crush a few limbs, toss ’em around to set an example. But trust me when I say, breaking their legs and beating them down doesn’t ease the suffering. At the moment it feels like justice, making them hurt the way they hurt others, but the real healing comes from the ones who help them out of it.”

“I think the memo got lost on the Southside.”

“You’re telling me,” Rhett smirked, tapping his knuckles on the glass tabletop.

Mandy caught their attention from across the yard, motioning to Ian that the shower was available. Rhett urged him to take advantage of the remaining hot water, heading inside to track down the remaining perpetrators of the culinary tornado, to hash out a game plan for the rest of their holiday. Clumps of dried and blended food were not in short supply, but he didn’t expect them to scrape their dinner from the walls for Thanksgiving, although it was a punishment Ian would have accepted.

“Shower’s yours, _Clayton_ ,” Mandy chimed, tugging a beanie over her ears. “Left you some hot water. You earned it.”

“Thanks,” he chuckled, opening the door to a flood of warmth prickling his frozen skin.

“Hey Ian?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you too, y’know,” she murmured, winter grass crunching beneath her boots. “I think you’re great. My brother has never been happier.”

“Those apple fritters definitely helped.”

Mandy giggled, flicking his forehead. “If you fuckers get married, I better get credit for it.”

\----------

Mickey didn’t share his charitable efforts with anyone, and he preferred to keep it that way. As he loaded the truck with food for the group home, he ruminated on what it meant to have a partner in life. Ian might not claw at him for information, but relationships required openness. Communication. He wouldn’t be able to get away with holding his cards close forever.

Iggy didn’t just bounce from shelter to shelter in search of a home for a troubled teen; he suffered a great deal at the hands of most places he stayed. Mickey was too young to do anything about it, but as they got older, his brother became more honest—most times behind a panel of fiberglass during visitation. He belonged in the joint with Iggy. It was their fate to fall into career criminality together. It broke him to be in the free world when they chained his brother by his ankles for court hearings. He didn’t want to tell Iggy about The Campbells at first. It surprised him to learn how relieved Iggy was that they cared for his siblings, even if he couldn’t be with them to experience it.

Mickey vowed to do what he could for other, less fortunate kids—hoodlums like them. Dumb luck gave him access to prosperity, and he would put it to good use.

It started with donations. When he and Mandy started out, they couldn’t afford to furnish their apartment without asking for a handout, never mind foster a child. But he auctioned artwork, contributed to raffle events, anything to breathe some life into the system. His income increased, as did his sponsorship in community aid. Twenty percent of everything he made teaching civilians to sky dive went toward rehabilitating troubled kids. He was a regular at the food bank and not standing in line to collect a meal like you’d expect a Milkovich to be. He started making monetary donations to local toy drives, before realizing how much better it was to buy the toys and bring them in himself.

“Loaded down and group home bound?” Malachiah asked, handing him another tray of cakes to load in the truck. “Your boy rescued most of it, save for a couple meringues and a pie.”

“Casualties of war,” he snickered, pilfering one for himself. “Already called a housecleaning company. They’re sending a team out tomorrow.”

“No need Khail, that was therapeutic for all of us. Your dad and I have it covered.”

“Let me take care of it, okay? I bring my boyfriend home for the first time and wreck the place—least I can do.”

Malachiah grabbed a microfiber towel from his workbench to give the grill of the truck an absentminded wipe down. “I like him.”

“Figured, since you got all cozy with the Terry shit.”

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, son.”

“Nah, you didn’t,” Mickey mollified, grabbing a rag and bottle of cleaner for himself, taking his nervous energy out on the chrome. “It’s good you told him. I never would have.”

They shined the truck to the sounds of chatter muffled through the walls of the house, grinning to themselves every so often. He missed spending the evening in the garage with his dad, shutting out the world for a while.

“I love him,” Mickey blurted, scratching his thumbnail over his eyebrow. “It’s too soon, right?”

Malachiah observed him with care, as he always did, taking time to plan his thoughts. “Love is just four letters, Khail. We say it too often for it to be the right word.”

“What do you mean?”

“That feeling in your chest, the burning ache, the one that makes you nauseous with worry, or dizzy with butterflies, they don’t have a word for that yet.”

“Ain’t that love, though?”

"You tell me, kid. I _love_ bagels, _love_ that restaurant by the beach. I _love_ the way your dad gets the giggles when he stays up too late with an excellent book,” Malachiah explained, leaning back on the workbench to give Mickey his full attention. “See what I mean? We want them to understand how they make our bodies and minds react, so we offer that word, but it’s never enough.”

“That’s what I said! It doesn’t feel like enough.”

“That is how you know, son. When that swell in your chest makes your heart thrum at the tips of your fingers, and you can’t explain it, it’s the real deal. Most people are not lucky enough to find that. They love their spouses like they love their lasagna or their favourite colour, catch my drift?”

“Got it,” Mickey said, wrapping his arms around himself and wishing it were Ian. “You’re a softy.”

“I’m a _romantic_. Don’t you forget it.”

Mickey twisted the cleaning rag in his hands, the familiar scent of lemon-lime reminding him that their time together was ending. His parents were a beacon of safety and it always stung to step away. He was proud to have a solid family to bring Ian home to.

“I’m scared to lose him.”

“Good. That’ll keep you fighting twice as hard not to.”

“You think?”

“I know, son.”

Mandy snapped a photo from the doorway, catching them off guard. She smiled at the screen with a shrug. “Pap wants to know if you’re down for Sizzler, since you Gaylords ruined dinner.”

“Whaddya say, kid? Burgers and fries for Thanksgiving?” Malachiah grinned, using his pants to wipe residue from his palms. “I hear they got a mean steak.”

“Cool with me. Just gotta drop this shit off. Where’s Ian?”

“Pappy dragged him upstairs to root through his closet, says he has a bunch of clothes for him to try on,” Mandy emphasized, scrunching her nose. “Are you gonna let him do this when I bring guys around?”

Malachiah held his hands up. “Don’t look at me! I just live here.”

“Great. Can’t wait to bang my boyfriend in my dad’s shirt,” Mickey cringed, causing the other two to keel over with laughter.

“We pretend you kids don’t do that stuff,” Malachiah chortled, patting his son on the back. “Give your old man a break, he’s finding excuses to bond. If he didn’t like Ian, he’d tell the neighbors he was stealing our pool equipment and have him arrested.”

“Holy shit!” Mandy said, clutching her stomach to catch her breath. “Is that what happened to the creepy pool douchebag Mickey was screwing?”

“No way,” Mickey gawked, breaking into his own fit of unbridled chortles. “You knew about that? I wondered what happened to that guy.”

“I plead the fifth, but don’t let that PhD fool you. He is a bigger Pitbull than me with you two. He fights dirty.”

“No shit. I mean, the guy was a pig, but _arrested?_ Seems excessive.”

“Does it? What would _you_ have done if you found out your son was being skewered by the staff?” Mandy asked, sending a punch to his shoulder.

“I would have buried that piece of shit in pieces down by the river.”

“There you go,” Malachiah beamed, tossing Mickey the keys for the truck. “Like father, like son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a joy for me to write. I live for sweet family moments. We've answered some questions, and presented some new ones. I wonder what the future has in store for these two! Thank you for reading, and as always, for your patience and kind comments. I appreciate them more than I can express. Much more of this story to come! I hope you are all doing well and staying safe out there.


	15. Bad Roommate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is romantic. Ian wants to spend every waking minute with him.

Ian stood outside his apartment building, guitar, and painted canvas in hand, as Mandy wailed her sensational goodbye from the passenger window of Mickey’s BMW. They invited him back to their place for the night, and while the thought was enticing, he had a final to prep for. He waved as they peeled down the road, a tinge of regret hitting his gut as the polished vehicle rounded the corner, disappearing from sight. The kid in him wanted to change his mind and chase after them, but he was too close to the finish line to compromise his work ethic. He flipped the artwork in his hand, heart fluttering as he gazed down at the brush stroked ballpark. It was a beautiful painting, by a remarkable man. He knew he would have the urge to gloat to anyone who saw it—his boyfriend painted it after all, and the thought had him chuckling to himself. He was a soft bitch.

Mason was as enthusiastic to see Ian’s return as a limp and punctured hose, but passive aggression didn’t bombard him for the first time in centuries, so he rode the wave of his weekend away. It went by too fast, and though his bones should have ached after an early flight, he struggled to sit still. His hands were desperate to find something, anything as interesting as Mickey to cling onto. It was the greatest phase of a new relationship, everything was new, and each experience was a first. It made him warm from his scalp to his toes.

Not twenty minutes after Mickey dropped him off, his phone chimed.

_**Can I come pick you up yet?** _

Ian put his palm to his cheek to temper the sting.

_**Promise to give me a better grade than I deserve.** _

His body ached for Mickey, and it hadn’t been an hour since they parted ways. He glanced around his rinky-dink bedroom and considered caving and inviting the man over so he could at least smell him as he pieced together the last details of his project. Mickey’s dedication to being the cutest person alive was not helping.

_**I think they’d fire me twice, Red. Fuck, I miss you.** _

A knock at the door discombobulated the butterflies swarming in his chest, and it tempted him to tell his roommate to piss off. He had made it an entire year without catastrophic conflict, just a little while longer.

“It’s your day to take the garbage out,” Mason reminded, handing him a piece of mail. “Lease is up soon. If you don’t wanna renew, I’ll start looking for your replacement.”

“Ouch—just like that, huh? Here I thought we were such good friends.”

Mason scoffed at his acerbity, flicking a dismissive hand in the air. “Whatever. Stay or don’t, but if you don’t take the garbage out, I’m going to dump it on your bed while you’re at school.”

Ian checked the time on the alarm beside his bed. It was two o’clock.

“Tell me again why you’re single.”

“You know, Ian, just because you like to live like a troll, doesn’t mean the rest of the world is going to cater to it.”

“My room is cleaner than yours.”

Mason turned on his heel, storming into his own bedroom with a slam so loud Ian thought he might have cracked the door. Maybe he could have handled himself better, but after months on end of incessant nagging, it felt great to stand his ground. Bass heavy music rattled through the walls, an overdue dose of passive aggression.

_**My roommate is an asshole.** _

His living situation intrigued Mandy, but he hadn’t filled his boyfriend in on the nitty-gritty details. He couldn’t picture Mickey having a roommate that wasn’t blood related. Mason’s head would be on a pike in the kitchen, no doubt about it.

_**Want me to fuck him up?** _

Ian chewed the dry patch on his bottom lip, musing. He’d never brought a guy home before, and Mason convinced him he was homophobic, anyway. It could be fun.

_**You’re just clawing at excuses to see me now, aren’t you?** _

Mickey’s response came through before he put his phone down.

_**You wish fucker.** _

_**But also come let me in, your neighbors think I’m sketchy.** _

Ian shuffled to his window, peering out to the street to see tanzanite blue gleaming up at him. His life was a movie.

It took him less than a minute to barrel down the stairs and into the lobby, sliding across the floor on socked feet. Mickey’s brows jumped at the other side of the entrance, buckles hanging from his leather jacket screaming for Ian to yank them. He opened the door with a squeak, reaching his hand out to drag his boyfriend to his chest.

“Are you stalking me now?”

“In your dreams, man,” Mickey snorted, leaning against Ian on his tip toes to rub the tips of their noses together. “You forgot something. I’m just here to drop it off.”

“I forgot something, did I? And what was so important that it couldn’t wait for school tomorrow?”

Mickey laced his fingers at the back of Ian’s head, tugging at his hair between his thumb and forefinger. “Take me to your place and I’ll show you.”

Sips of kisses and laughter spilled between their lips, a warm breeze chilling the sweat beading on their foreheads. Ian adored how the sun danced across Mickey’s features, emphasizing each freckle and pore. It pleased him to discover it was possible to fall hopelessly in love with someone’s smile lines.

“Where’s Mandy?”

“I show up at your door with roses and you ask me where my sister is?”

Ian nuzzled into Mickey’s neck, tittering. “You don’t have roses.”

Mickey’s brows shot to his hairline, tongue in his cheek like he expected the challenge. “Passenger seat.”

Ian jogged to the car, white socks absorbing the pebbles on the sidewalk. He didn’t care how ridiculous he looked doing it, or how adolescent he sounded when he found them. There on the leather seat sat two dozen roses with a card tucked between the stems. Tears pooled in his eyes and he refused to care about that either.

“Are you real?”

Mickey smiled that toothy, mischievous grin and Ian melted into the street.

“Hope you like red. They had so many colours, took me a while to pick. Only reason I wasn’t back here sooner.”

“I fuckin’ love you, d’you know that?” Ian asked, skirting around the car to wrap his arms around his boyfriend, mouth going dry at the immediate softening of Mickey’s eyes. “Why are you so good to me?”

They rocked back and forth, thumbs brushing cheeks, sweet sounds rivalling those of the surrounding chaos, breathing each other in. A weekend together wasn’t enough.

“I’m crazy about you, Gallagher. The second I hit the freeway, I wanted to turn around. Dropped Mandy off at home and came right back.”

“Wanna come upstairs?”

“Only if it’s cool with you, man. I know you’ve got your project and stuff. Just wanted to see you.”

“You could help me. Four hands are better than two.”

Mickey smirked, boxing Ian in against the hood of the car. “I must dock you points.”

“Fuck ’em,” Ian said, slipping his hands under Mickey’s jacket to squeeze his hips. “I already scored top of my class.”

\----------

They yammered and laughed the entire way to Ian’s door, paying no mind to the noise level, too enraptured in each other to give two shits about courtesy. Before Ian could turn the doorknob, a petulant leprechaun swung open the door with a groan.

“You forgot the garbage—” Mason barked, halting at the sight of dark hair and piercing blue eyes. “Oh. You have a guest.”

“I do,” Ian nodded, bringing their conjoined hands up to his mouth at a snail’s pace to kiss the tattoos on Mickey’s fingers. “This is my boyfriend.”

“No guests past 10pm, _Ian_.”

“I know. That won’t be a problem.”

“He can’t sleep here,” Mason wheezed, pushing his hair off his forehead when Ian yanked Mickey close, taking his thumb into his mouth. “No overnight guests on weeknights. He can’t stay all night.”

“If you get the fuck outta the way I won’t have to,” Mickey said, letting out a filthy moan when Ian raked his teeth over his thumb, moving to the finger beside it. “Or you could close the door and we’ll do the deed right here on your doormat.”

Mason turned deathly pale, backing away from the door and into his mosh pit of a bedroom, cranking the volume of his music loud enough Ian was sure the man would need earplugs just to tolerate the clatter.

“He _is_ a douchebag, Jesus,” Mickey said, chuckling as Ian dragged him through the halls and onto his bed, slamming the door behind them.

“Shit, I forgot my roses!”

“Hey, no worries. Walk me to my car later and you can grab ’em,” Mickey placated, grabbing Ian’s pillow, and clutching it to his chest. “I might steal this, though.”

“My pillow? I don’t think you wanna do that, Mick. I drool.”

“Don’t care. Smells like you.”

The admission made him weak in the knees. He wasn’t sure any guy appreciated his scent. Nobody took the time to point it out if they had. He hopped off the bed to close his blinds, shutting out the afternoon glare.

“Want the tour?”

“I want you to get on me,” Mickey smirked, sitting up to whip off his shirt. “Show me around later.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Ian pulled off his shirt with one hand, stripping bedside, just out of reach. Mickey groaned when he undressed at a teasing pace, rubbing his hand over the outline of his crotch, hardening under his jeans. It was hypnotic the way Mickey’s breathing rhythm changed when he gave him a show, slow blinks against budding arousal.

“You like that?”

Mickey murmured under his breath, his toughness fading. “Get over here.”

Ian shook his head, coaxing the button on his jeans so slow his boyfriend wiggled on the bed. He expected Mickey to lose control and pull him down, but he slid a hand down to palm his own bulge instead, short circuiting Ian’s brain.

“No fair.”

“Life ain’t fair, Red.”

Ian’s cock strained against the fabric, but he took his time, languid strokes over soft cotton. Mickey’s nostrils flared, bottom lip disappearing between his teeth. It wasn’t until Ian slipped his hand under his boxers that the energy crackled in the air.

“Take it out, Mick.”

“If you want me to jerk off for you, gotta ask nice.”

A swift kick sent his jeans careening into his laptop, bed dipping with his weight as he crawled to Mickey. “Please.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug with a quirk of his brow. “Doesn’t sound like you want it.”

Oh, he wanted it. He wanted it so badly it was staining his boxers, an obvious wet spot from crotch to waistband. “See for yourself,” Ian said, running a finger along the stain, and holding it up to show him the glisten.

“Beg for it,” Mickey whispered, mesmerized by Ian’s leisurely strokes, underwear bunched at his knees. “I wanna hear you beg.”

Heat prickled from the base of Ian’s spine to his scalp, as Mickey’s girth pressed against his pants, twitching the harder Ian worked himself. He smoothed his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture collected at the tip, slick sounds causing Mickey to pant as it lubricated his strokes.

“Please,” Ian whimpered, reaching his free hand to his nipple.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re so hot, Gallagher.”

“Please, Mick. Rub your dick for me.”

Before he could undo his pants, Ian was kissing his wrist, agonizing swirls of his tongue on tender flesh, tracing the veins there. One kiss after another until he reached Mickey’s shoulder, burrowing into his neck. Ian sucked a bruise under his jaw, hissing at the motion of Mickey’s arm before taking himself in hand. He let himself leak onto the sheets, moving to leave another mark on his collarbone. Moans drifted between them like secrets, muscles flexing to chase stimulation.

“Can I—can I fuck you?” Mickey asked, quiet, a shift in power.

Ian peppered kisses up to his chin before rifling through his drawer for lube. He placed the bottle beside Mickey’s busy hand, returning to slow, toe curling kisses across the surface of his body. It brought Ian to the brink, made him dizzy. He shuffled next to Mickey, heat coming off him in waves, learning how his lover liked to touch himself, studying where he applied pressure, and how far he’d let himself swell before he squeezed the base for a break. Ian spread his legs, signalling that he was ready, holding a hand to his chest to steady his breaths.

Mickey pumped sweet smelling lubricant into his palm, applying a layer to himself, before doing the same to Ian, urging him to lay back as his fingers ventured lower.

“Tell me if it hurts and I’ll stop, okay?”

Ian’s belly shivered, and like clockwork, Mickey settled the anxious energy with tender kisses, stroking Ian to ease the tension in his thighs and lower back. When Ian was raring to go, he guided Mickey’s hand back down.

And he was gentle.

So gentle when he pressed inside.

Ian squeezed his eyes against the white light and the inevitable burn, as Mickey worked in careful, measured movements. It was painful at first, but more than that, it was uncomfortable in the way it was foreign to him, but only long enough for him to adjust. Mickey leaned in to lick his rim, injecting pleasure with his tongue as he slid another finger inside. Pre-cum leaked down his shaft and Mickey lapped it up, applying pressure until he was knuckle deep and making Ian writhe.

Mickey settled between his legs, rubbing his palms against the insides of Ian’s thighs, opening him up. He checked in with Ian, brows furrowed, nibbling his lower lip. 

“It’s okay, Mick. I want it. Go.”

“It’s not too late to switch, man. It’s okay if you don’t like it. You can tell me.”

“I want to. I’m ready.”

Another pump of lube dripped over Mickey’s shaft, an icy chill at Ian’s entrance as he shared it. “I love you, Ian.”

Somehow, after that, the pain evaporated. He found comfort in Mickey’s sturdy arm, braced at his side as he maneuvered his hips and bottomed out.

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian whispered, huffing out lighthearted laughter as tingles rained through his body. “Is this what I’ve been missing?”

“Pretty good, right?” he tittered, picking up the pace to draw delicious sounds from them both. “You feel so good, man.”

They bucked and rocked against each other, sweat dripping, sheets pooling beneath them. It was ecstasy. When Mickey lifted his leg to angle himself better, he almost went blind from the hits of pleasure rocketing through his spine, a point of indulgence he had been missing out on all his life.

“Right there. _Holy shit_ ,” Ian moaned, reaching for the headboard above him. “Harder. Give it to me harder.”

Mickey threw his head back, grinning as he increased the pace, skin slapping together, leaving it reddened and sensitive. Tremors flew through them, Ian the first to reach the peak.

“I’m gonna come—oh _fuck,_ I’m gonna come. I can’t stop it,” Ian whined, willing his body to give him just a little more time.

“Let go, come for me,” Mickey said, panting as the headboard slammed the wall in rapid succession. “I’m close.”

They both reached for Ian’s cock, jerking it together until it throbbed and spilled in ropes between them, sending Mickey over the edge with a guttural shout.

Mason banged his fists against the wall as they collapsed together, propelling them into a fit of laughter.

\----------

Costume building consumed the rest of the afternoon. Mickey didn’t mind that Ian was working with a needle and thread, it reminded him of his own journey. It didn’t stop him from buying a sewing machine for his boyfriend online when he took off to pick up dinner.

Ian had little to his name, judging by his space, but he enjoyed the simplicity. He found it endearing that the most treasured item was his guitar. He had grown a deep affection for the instrument himself. When boredom struck and Ian struggled to focus, Mickey continued to stitch his fabric together, listening to him play. Music was better when Ian was in control of it. He took his favourite songs and made them better.

When Ian’s roommate thrashed in the door, it sent him into a rage.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

Mason looked past him, glaring daggers at Ian. “You’re playing too loud.”

“Eh, don’t talk to him. Talk to me. You can’t tell him not to play. He pays to live here, too.”

“It’s noise pollution!” Mason said, jabbing his finger in the redhead’s direction. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Mickey moved forward, blocking the doorway. “Zero. ’Cause if you harass him about his guitar one more time, I’m gonna break every knuckle on your hand.”

“You can’t threaten me,” Mason said with an incredulous gasp. “I’ll call the police!”

“Go for it. Hell, I’ll even give you my phone, man. But I’m warning you, there are two dudes from the Southside in this apartment with you. How long do you think it’ll take them to get here?” he asked, glancing back at a contented Ian, strumming his guitar again. “I don’t know what you’ve been able to get away with before I came around, but it stops now.”

He closed the door in the other man’s face, reaching for the needle and thread.

“If you didn’t fuck me out, I’d plow you on that asshole’s bed.”

“Can we put that on the list?” Ian asked, gliding a pick over the strings into Mickey’s favourite tune by The Smashing Pumpkins. “He does hot yoga every Thursday at six.”

“Keep playing me songs like this, and I’ll do whatever you ask, man.”

\----------

Ian laid out his project on the bed, inspecting Mickey’s handy-work. It looked incredible, like a costume made to order by a seasoned tailor. He had a knack for costume design that went beyond anything Ian had the patience to learn on his own. It was exciting to imagine them working together on a more regular basis, bouncing ideas off each other, and teaching each other new techniques. Ian wasn’t a seamster, but he discovered strengths of his own throughout the modules. Special effects came to him like peanut butter on toast. He hoped his final project would reflect that.

“Thank you for your help, Mick. It’s perfect.”

“It’s all you, baby. I just gave it a little fine tuning.”

“You’re humble,” Ian purred, pulling him in for a kiss. “And I like when you call me baby.”

“Don’t hold your breath, I’m a badass, remember?”

Ian let his fingers wander below Mickey’s waistband, tickling and scratching at the course hair above his manhood. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Chh, hardly.”

“You are. I love it.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go telling everybody. I have to uphold my reputation.”

It was impossible not to fall into stupid love with this man. He was a wet dream on stilts. Mickey’s arms wrapped around him made him forget about all the things niggling at the back of his mind. It only took him a handful of weeks to make Los Angeles a place he could call home, and without him, it would be just another city. Mickey was home.

His stomach gave a twist when he noticed the time.

“Guess you better get going, huh?”

“Yeah. You gonna be okay up here with Oscar the Grouch?”

“I’ll be fine. I made it this far, right?” Ian said, kissing the words across Mickey’s cheeks. “He gave me paperwork to renew my lease today.”

Mickey held Ian’s face in his hands, soft thumb strokes along his jaw and cheekbones. “Gonna do it?”

“I’ve been looking for a new place.”

Mickey raked his teeth across his bottom lip with a slight nod. Ian could see his deliberations festering, so he hauled him in for another quick kiss, grabbing his keys from the bedside table.

“I’ll walk you down.”

“You just want your flowers,” Mickey grinned with a playful pinch to Ian’s butt cheek. “Where ya gonna put ’em?”

“I’ll send you a picture when I find a suitable spot to set them up. They gotta be in my room, though. Mason will toss them out.”

“That prick is lucky I don’t stick them up his ass, one by one.”

\----------

There were two things Ian hated. When his meds were unbalanced and having to say goodbye to Mickey.

The latter seemed to occur more often than his heart could handle, and watching him pull away, brake lights flickering in the distance, brought emotion to the surface he wasn’t used to. He clutched to his bouquet, staring down the street until the traffic lights turned green, and his favourite person in the world vanished. He was lovesick.

A lump settled in his throat and he dreaded another confrontation with Mason when vulnerability was so fresh. It was a pleasant surprise to arrive to relative silence, his roommate seeming to make a point not to disturb Ian. Served him right for being an irascible jerk for so long.

His room still smelled of Mickey, his pillow sheets, and blankets too. He didn’t understand why it made him more emotional, familiar stinging on the rims of his eyes distorting his vision. He buried his face against velvet soft rose petals, inhaling the next best fragrance, overwhelmed by the urge to ask Mickey to come back. Instead, he cleared off his desk, placing his flowers in the center, snapping a picture that would incline him to gaze at it long after the petals wilted. As he opened the photo to send to Mickey, he received a text.

_**Did you read the card yet?** _

Ian snatched the tiny black envelope and tore it open, muscle thudding between his ribs. He closed his eyes to take a breath, chuckling at himself for being such a wuss. They lined the cardstock with a simple gold border, but what was inside twisted him into a fizzling pretzel.

_Ian,_

_I knew you were special the moment we met._

_You changed my life that day._

_I love you, forever._

_Yours only,_

_Mickey._

It was a promise. A promise two boys made when they grew up on the Southside and collided like two chaotic forces, iridescent sparks bursting in the sky to let the world know. It wasn’t too soon, could never be too soon. There was a purpose, him finding that magazine waiting in line at the coffee shop. It was destiny for there to only be one copy left. When he turned the pages to see the excerpt about the Southside thug turned makeup extraordinaire, he thought about it for weeks, months. His soul came alive with inspiration when it did, because that is where he belonged. Mickey was always his, they just had to find each other first.

__

_**Can I kiss you forever, Mick?** _

Maybe that was a promise, too.

_**I’m all the way in, Red. All the way. See you in class tomorrow. Sleep tight.** _

__

\----------

Ian burned off his nervous energy at the gym, his mental health missing the extra cardio in recent days. He took his time in the shower, letting the scalding water sooth his sore muscles. He wore glorified rags to school to avoid destroying the few decent articles of clothing he owned, but it was his final exam, and his instructor fucked him in the ass last night. It was cause for celebration.

Mandy almost detonated into Milkovich paste when he walked into the nutrition store, squealing until she bridged the gap between them, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. She was family, and he realized in that spontaneous greeting how fortunate he was to have her too.

“My brother made me stay up late last night, wanna know why?” Mandy asked, patting his chest like a drum.

“Why’s that?”

“I can’t tell you,” she blurted, wrinkling her nose. “But when he asks you, please say yes, okay?”

His expression must have been noteworthy because she followed it up with a panicked, “Wait, _not that_. I mean, I hope he does—that—but that’s not what I’m talking about right now.”

A customer prodded past them with a basket full of supplements, ringing the bell on the counter for effect. Mandy rolled her eyes and held her finger up to keep Ian from leaving.

He used the opportunity to peruse the newest shelf of workout powders, trying not to check his phone for the thousandth time since he woke up. Mickey hadn’t sent him a good morning text, but he gave him a bundle of gorgeous flowers and the most intense orgasm he’d ever undertaken, so it didn’t affront him.

“Sorry about that,” Mandy groaned, rolling her eyes again at the insolent customer trudging back out into the mall. “Like I said, he is going to ask you something, and I need you to say yes. It’s important.”

“Are you seriously not going to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“A hint?”

She thrashed around like a little girl trying to prevent her clandestine activities from trickling out. “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. It would piss Mick off. Bah! Leave before I let it slip.”

Ian chuckled, gesturing to the empty blenders. “I need my breakfast first, blueberry please.”

“I knew that,” she said with her nose in the air. “Oh my god, Ian. I don’t know what you’ve done, but he’s so happy. He’s doing that thing where he talks about you every other sentence, and it would irritate the shit out of me, but I kinda think you’re amazing, so I shall let the cheesery begin. Have you texted him yet?”

“Me? No. I was waiting for him to text first.”

She dumped a basket of berries in the blender, adding way too much honey and milk. “You shithead! He forced me to listen to him blather on about how he did not want to be _that guy_ and how he didn’t want to bombard you. All the way to work, Ian. Can you text your boyfriend, _please_?”

He shrugged his makeup bags onto the ground, rolling his kit under the counter to free his hands. When tapped on the screen, his cheeks flamed up, a grin tugging at his lips.

_**Mornin’ baby. Get here early so I can lay one on ya.** _

“I gotta run,” Ian blurted, fumbling with his bags, and tripping over his rolling kit.

“What about your smoothie? Ian!”

“I’ll be back. Put it to the side, okay?”

If she responded he didn’t catch it, sprinting to the escalator to beat the rush of students turning up before class to set up for their big test. When he sailed through the main doors, racing past the additional dozen twinkling Christmas trees added to the fleet, his heart jumped into his throat at a glimpse of dark hair in the elevator. He caught it before the steel doors closed, breathing like he’d been smoking a pack a day since he was twelve.

Mickey’s smirk was enthralling, and just as Ian was about to speak, a wayward student wedged their arm in the gap, causing the sensor to open it back up. One student turned into six, and within thirty seconds it crammed them at either side of the lift, with an upsurge of boisterous chatter crowded between them. 

“Good morning, Mr. Milkovich,” a student said, flirtatious as all get out, flipping her hair to her other shoulder to expose her neckline. “I like your shirt.”

“It’s Mickey and I hate yours. What’d I say about Gucci?”

“Oh, this is last season, I don’t care about ruining it. Got plenty more where this came from.”

The elevator doors opened, and the students poured out into the hallway. Ian held his arm out for Mickey to exit second to last, earning him a wink of gratuity, but Ian wasn’t being polite. Any excuse to sneak a peek at that fine ass was vital. His instructor unlocked the doors to the classroom, ushering them inside, stopping Ian before he walked past the desk.

“Ian, you left something behind last week,” Mickey lied, tilting his head toward the empty hall. “I put it away for you.”

He tried to contain his elation, slinking back where he came from, pleased to find Mickey sauntering just a couple feet behind him. His instructor pointed to the door beside the elevator, guiding them into an office that would conceal them behind a locked door.

Before he had time to put his bags down, Mickey grabbed a fistful of his Henley, followed by a biting kiss that sent blood rushing between his legs. “Good luck today, Gallagher.”

“Well, thank you, Mister Milkovich.”

“It’s _daddy_ to you,” he teased, planting a kiss on Ian’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one, why not?  
> I hope you are doing well and staying healthy. Thank you for giving me a safe place to express myself creatively and escape the craziness of our world. To those commenting, and those simply reading, thank you all.


	16. Investments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making Ian smile is Mickey's drug. Ian has a decision to make.

The school demanded that each student bring models in from outside campus for any practical examinations. His classmates didn’t interest him, but between exams, it was convenient to work together. Test days were different and took him out of his comfort zone. It was worse when he first moved to LA because he had met no one new. The career department created online resources to connect students with models, and while there were dependable people on the platform, sometimes they bailed at the last minute, leaving devastated students in the lurch. Instructors recommended hiring an agency to provide reliant individuals, but that had never been in Ian’s budget. It left him scrambling many times until he met Dallis. She adjusted her work schedule to accommodate his projects whenever she was able.

His final exam was tricky. Dallis had gone on an impromptu road trip for months, keeping in touch through Snapchat and email, her return dependent on how fast her money dwindled. She needed the time away, and he wanted to support her opportunity to explore with a free spirit, so he went searching for someone else to fill her spot. She came back in time, but he made his arrangements. It turned out to be an enormous mistake, because it was half past the start time of his exam, and his model was nowhere in sight.

“This blows, Ian. I’m so sorry,” Rachel said as she helped him straighten out his tools and supplies at his station. “Still no word from him?”

“Nope. I’ve tried texting, but no answer. I don’t think he’s coming.”

It occupied Mickey bouncing back and forth between frazzled students, answering last-minute questions, and sorting out the madness between two classrooms—to their collective chagrin, his fellow instructor called in sick, putting Mickey and his team under twice the pressure. Sweat dripped down Ian’s back as his mind raced, trying to find a solution. Every minute lost was a design element it bound him to lose points on.

“Do you have any friends that can come in? Anyone close by?” Rachel asked, pulling out her phone to send out an SOS to any available friends of her own. “I might get someone down here.”

“My friends are all on shift today, no way they can escape all day.”

His two most notable local friends were Dallis and Mandy, and both of them were in uncompromising positions.

Mickey made his way over, contrite. He thumbed his eyebrow, hand on his hip, mulling over what they could do to resolve the time sensitive conundrum. He suggested pushing back the exam, offering Ian a time slot to make up for lost time, but it put him with another instructor and pushed back his graduation date. Students called out to him from all points of the room, spilling in from the classroom next door, causing him to scowl at the distraction.

“I need a minute to figure something out, okay?” Mickey said, giving Ian an instinctual squeeze on his shoulder. “We’re going to work this out.”

He was off like a bullet, and it left Ian observing his classmates as they rushed against the clock. It would be a lie if he said he didn’t want to cry. It was frustrating, but being let down wasn’t the actual issue. A year is a long time to go without proper sleep, battling against mental illness, and fretting about the weight of his future, only to have his last moments go up in flames.

Rachel leaned against Mickey’s desk, foot tapping against the floor with enough force he could hear it over the ear splitting babbling in the room. “Fuck!” she said as she tossed her phone across the surface behind her. She ambled over, hands in the air. “People suck, don’t they? We have to change this crappy set up. This happens too often.”

Ian nodded, wilting from the inside. “Should I pack my kit back up?”

Rachel squished her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger, glancing around the room, counting heads under her breath. “No—I have an idea.”

She scurried out of the room, and Ian squinted against the florescent lights, watching her ponytail whip behind her. It was too loud, too bright, and if someone didn’t open a window, he was sure he’d pass out from the stench of sweat alone. Ten minutes disappeared before she came stomping back, dragging Mickey by his arm.

“Figured it out,” she exclaimed, all but shoving his instructor against the stainless steel counter. “Mick will be your model. I’ll take care of everything else.”

“This is a terrible idea,” Mickey said, sending an apologetic gaze in Ian’s direction. “It’s already going to be brutal with only two of us on the floor. These fuckers will have you drowning before lunch.”

Ian started unzipping his kit to gather his brushes and pack them away when the redheaded assistant shouted above the chaos. “Everybody shut the fuck up for a minute. Hey! Eyes on me, please. Stop what you’re doing.”

Heads darted in her direction, heavy breathing, and the odd whisper the only sounds left. “Thank you. Okay. There has been a slight change of plans. Mickey is off the clock so if you need help, I’m your gal. This is your moment to shine — I do not want to hear you crying out because you can’t remember how long your adhesives need to dry before you can paint. If you paid attention in class, you would have your answers,” she said, sucking in a breath before continuing. “You have a one hour extension, and if you want work through your lunch break, you are welcome to, so long as your models are willing.”

Mickey gawked at her and Ian had to stifle his laughter at his reaction. When Rachel seemed satisfied that it had made her message clear, she clapped her hands and barked at them to get moving. When the noise level hit the ceiling again, she turned to them with a smirk.

“What’re you waiting for? Chop-chop.”

Mickey shook his head with a grin, and Ian slid out his chair, gesturing at it with an open hand. “Take a seat, Mick.”

“You shithead,” he whispered, expressive brows jumping. “I ain’t helping you cheat. Same rules apply.”

“Who says I need your help?”

Mickey snickered at that, shrugging his shoulders. “Alright, hot shot. Show me how it’s done.”

He tried not to make eye contact, keeping his sudden flood of anxiety under wraps. Exam day was turbulent enough. Exam day when your esteemed instructor turned boyfriend becomes your model, disastrous. Ian considered it a hinderance on principle alone, since it would expose Mickey to every microscopic detail and each mistake. If his lover thought it bound him to cut corners just because they liked to lick the insides of each other’s mouths, he was sadly mistaken.

“Do you have any allergies?” Ian asked, his due diligence in his responsibility to any potential model.

“Fuck off. You know I don’t.”

“Do I?”

“Okay, funny guy, no. I don’t have any allergies.”

“How about latex?” Ian murmured, leaning too close as he fastened the protectant cape behind Mickey’s neck. “It is common to have adverse reactions to it.”

Trapped together for five hours plus an extension without making Mickey squirm would be an opportunity he couldn’t risk missing out on. His gut twisted when his instructor rose to the occasion, pinching his thigh from below the nylon gown.

“I’m good with latex. Haven’t had to worry about that as of late, though.”

Ian choked on his spit, sending Mickey into a fit of laughter.

“Don’t play with me, Red. I’ll knock your wacky fuckin’ socks off.”

“Leave my socks out of this. Sit still,” Ian said as he pressed a hand to his instructors’ chest. “Skin prep.”

Ian poured a generous amount of toner onto a cotton pad, chamomile breaking through the increasing body odour around them. Mickey flinched as he swiped the cool liquid along his skin, clenching his jaw when Ian slid gentle fingers against it, positioning him as he went. A noise escaped Mickey’s throat as the pad brushed down to his clavicle, sending his heart into jittering palpitations. It was fun in theory, but Ian worried he would spend the day scolding his excitable dick.

“I’m prepped, man.”

“I’ll decide that,” Ian protested, moving on to moisturizer.

“You don’t have to worry. I do this shit day in and day out, I can take a beating. Move on so you lose no more time.”

“Are you my teacher or my model?”

Mickey quirked a brow, punishing Ian with his explorative tongue, leaving a sheen on his bottom lip. “Gonna bite my tongue on that one, Red.”

“Checkmate,” Ian boasted, tittering when Mickey spread his legs in the chair to adjust himself.

It was going to be a long day.

\----------

Mickey enjoyed working on Ian’s project with him. It gave him a sense of pride to see the man tackle a classic, and his plan to execute it only impressed him more. He and Mandy watched The Lost Boys dozens of times over the years, pandering to Mickey’s obsession with film and their shared infatuation with attractive men. He could never have predicted a full circle moment, with him in the makeup chair, becoming a replica of the monsters he may or may not have jacked off to during puberty. It put wicked thoughts in his head about what they could do when the application was complete, but he couldn’t allow himself the moral discrepancy. Not during business hours, anyway.

Ian was a determined man like him. Short of a few sips of water and a snack they ate as they worked, he didn’t so much as glance at the clock. When the heated banter subsided, and the redhead got into his groove, he moved like it had blessed the industry for years. Colour matching was a challenge to most artists in the beginning, some getting away with a continued weakness in that area throughout their career. Ian blended perfect shades on his stainless steel palette with ease, melting it into the back of his hand as he dipped his brushes into the foundation. It was a trade ritual, using the back of one’s hand as a palette with certain products, and he thought Ian looked handsome as he ever had, skin stained and blotched with paints.

“The edges are clean, Gallagher. Nice work,” Mickey said, splitting a granola bar with his student and staring into a handheld mirror as he chewed. “I like how you hit it with extra texture at the thicker points—can hardly tell where your prosthetic ends and my skin begins.”

“I can tell. The last pull didn’t turn out like I wanted.”

“Ran outta time?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t run the foam again, but I figured I could make this piece work,” Ian muttered, rolling his neck to ease apparent tension. “With more practice, I’ll have it down.”

Mickey did not doubt that for a second.

Ian’s absorption in his project distracted him from the clock, but Mickey was keeping track. Out the gate, the redhead lost momentum, but he remedied it with focus and precision. The boyfriend in him wanted to tell Ian how valuable that skill was on set, and that it would honour him to work alongside him, but surrounded by other students, it was unprofessional.

“You might not need the extension,” Mickey said, making a compromise with his mind.

“Is it cool if we keep working through lunch? I’d rather bank time than end up with not enough.”

They smiled at each other, and Ian’s rigid eyes softened. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t take that kind, freckled face in his hands and kiss it until his makeup smeared. It was a scandal he would lose it all for.

“You’re incredible,” Mickey whispered, and he thought the redhead might break. He was okay with it. If he lost his job, he would pour his unrequited energy into the only man that had ever taken his breath from his lungs.

Ian’s ability to strengthen for them both when Mickey’s resolve crumbled made them unstoppable. The redhead grinned at the hushed confession, but he kept busy, drawing no unwanted attention their way.

“Tell me more about this dog you’ve always wanted,” Ian said, powdering the tacky areas of Mickey’s face, careful to shield his eyes. “You think Mandy could ever get on board?”

“Maybe.”

“Think it’d be worth it?”

The adrenalized students muted their voices, but what Mickey wanted to say, and what was appropriate to say were unmatched.

“Under the right circumstances.”

Ian seemed to accept his response, glancing up at Rachel as she announced lunch hour. It didn’t phase Mickey in the slightest that within moments they were the only ones in the room. Out of twenty students, it was fortuitous if even two of them wound up productive members of TV and film. Most of them would filter through career postings for a while, ending up in freelance bridal or a cosmetics sales counter. It involved decent money across the board, but it took specific talent and work ethic to withstand the mechanics of the industry positions.

“You sure you don’t wanna take a break?”

“Nah, I’m good. How are you feeling?”

“I could use a smoke,” Mickey admitted. “But I can hold out.”

Ian shook his head, wiping his hands with a moist towelette. “Nicotine sounds like heaven right about now.”

\----------

They sat side by side on cold cement steps, gravitating closer to each other than they had the first time around. The makeup was incomplete, and they still had to integrate the costume, but Mickey looked hot. Ian was coming around to the idea that vampires might be exceptional fantasies to holster. When grey plumes of smoke drifted from his instructor’s nostrils, it only tightened that hypothesis.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Ian flipped him the bird, reaching for his phone. “I’ll take that as permission.”

He wrapped his arm around Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him in. A selfie worthy of capturing, cigarette hanging from his smug boyfriend’s mouth, paired with a smile so grand on his own face, he wondered if he had loved anyone else before Mickey.

“You said roommates,” Mickey mumbled, tipping Ian’s phone to get a look at their shot.

“Hm?”

“When I took you for a drive, you mentioned shitty roommates. Is Mason the only one?”

“Right. Uh, no. Well, on the lease he’s the only one. Sometimes he lets his buddies crash on the couch for weeks. They think they own the place.”

“That’s annoying since the fucker doesn’t let you have friends stay overnight.”

Ian took a drag from Mickey’s cigarette, rejoicing in the sting in his chest before formulating his thoughts. “I sneak Dallis in all the time. Mason has only caught us once or twice. Made her leave. I try to follow the rules to keep shit civil, but it gets lonely, y’know?”

Mickey pulled a leg up to his chest, flicking ash on the step below them. “Would you be open to having roommates in your next place?”

“I don’t have a choice. The cost of living here is crazy.”

“But is that what you want?”

It was a good question. He spent his life in a home with a circus of siblings and stragglers. It was familiar, and his exposure to anything less was obsolete. Kev and Veronica were the only close friends they had that didn’t have a revolving door on their place, unless you counted the early years of Gallagher sabotage.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been on my own.”

“Me either,” Mickey said, gripping the handrail above his head to lean on his arm. “I wonder about it sometimes, having a space of my own.”

“I don’t like to sleep alone. That much I know. Is that pathetic?”

Mickey scanned their surroundings, landing at a lingering gaze with Ian. “Hell no, man,” he murmured, steeling his expression. “Can I tell you something?”

Ian wanted to know everything. Any information Mickey shared was precious. He nodded.

“I haven’t slept right since you came around.”

Butterflies flitted from the cage in his abdomen as he replayed the words in his head and the gentle tone of Mickey’s voice as he spoke.

“How is this going to work when school is over?”

“When you graduate?”

“Yeah,” Ian whispered, closing the gap between them. “Will we have to keep this a secret?”

“I’m gonna shout it from the fuckin’ rooftops, man,” Mickey said with a chuckle. “I can’t even keep my trap shut when I buy birthday gifts and shit, you think I’ve got a shot in hell hiding you?”

\----------

He was right, Ian didn’t need the extra hour. The same didn’t apply to his classmates. They started on time and still fell behind, brushes clanking and airbrushes whirring as models shimmied into their costumes, some in ball gowns, others in suits. There was even a massive mermaid tail, which Mickey found enticing, given the challenge it posed for the photographer waiting down the hall to capture each project.

“Whaddya think, Milkovich?” Ian asked, straightening out his collar for the last touch.

“Can’t tell you shit, gotta wait for your grade like everyone else.”

Rachel shuffled over with a clipboard at her hip, Rapunzel length hair mussed from what Mickey could only guess was pulling it out. “Look at you,” she giggled, poking Mickey in his stomach and bending forward to whisper between them. “Halloween is going to be a blast with you two.”

Despite eavesdroppers, Mickey let himself be excited about that remark. “You gonna wait until I’m an actual vampire to grade Ian’s work?”

“You better step off, Mickey. My patience is in the negative.”

“Fun day?” he smirked, hissing when she sent an impressive blow to his upper arm. “Careful, I might file harassment on your ass.”

“You sure you want to go there?” Rachel razzed, waggling her brows at Ian.

“Bite me.”

“Said the vampire,” she snickered, pleased with her own retort. “Alright Ian, go take a seat in the lobby. I’m going to grade your work, and when I’m done, we’ll review what I think your strengths are, and any areas of improvement, yeah?”

“Works for me, thanks.”

Rachel called out to her fellow redhead before he made it to the door. “Hey Ian?”

“What’s up?”

“Good to have you around. I see a bright future ahead of you.”

Mickey glanced over her shoulder, warmth pooling in his belly at the pure glee on Ian’s face. He couldn’t have said it better himself.

\----------

Mickey encouraged his students to take a lap around the school to show off their achievements. Ian guzzled a bottle of water, enjoying the scene playing out in front of him. His peers were insufferable, but reaching the end united them in their elation, parading back and forth, absorbing compliments from the staff at the front desk. Charlotte snapped pictures as they went, gushing over Mickey as the instructor bragged about the student who pulled it off.

He imagined for a moment, sprawled out on the wicker chair in the lobby, what it might be like waking up next to Mickey every morning.

He imagined what it would feel like to greet him when he came home after work, filled to the brim with stories from his day.

They had transformed the school into a winter wonderland on psychedelics, and Ian lived for it, even if Mickey pretended to be cantankerous at the elaborate décor. Christmas trees twinkled, metallic ornaments reflecting light at silver tipped branches, wreaths embellished with candy canes and mirrored balls. As with everything, it ignited thoughts of Mickey. He envisioned holidays, wrapped in a wool blanket by the fire, after shoveling the driveway of his parents’ home, or a space of their own. A pristine Northside address, or a fixer upper on the Southside, it made no difference. Flames crackling and dancing for them as they teased each other about who was the real slacker, before rolling on the hardwood floor, alternating between fucking and making love.

“You did a phenomenal job on Mickey,” Charlotte beamed, reaching for his hand to pull him up. “He’s so happy, too. It is nice to see. He deserves it.”

“Well, _that_ I didn’t have a hand in,” Ian lied, and not well enough.

She adjusted her glasses, plucking fuzz from his shirt. “Do I look stupid to you, Mr. Gallagher?”

The question felt like a trap. “N-no. Of course not.”

“Then you’ll understand that I’ve witnessed you both pining for each other right here inside these walls I’ve invested so much of my life.”

And it was a trap.

“He has done nothing wrong, it’s all me. M-Mickey is an excellent instructor. Professional since day one. I was pushy. It’s kinda how I am, y’know? I push. If I didn’t push so hard, he would never have looked twice, I swear.”

“Are you finished?” she smirked, looping her arm in his. “I came to inform you that there will be no ramifications of your relationship once you’ve graduated.”

“Oh.”

“You think you’re the first to fall in love in the workplace?”

“I know dating students is wrong.”

“Well, so is eating grilled cheese sandwiches for breakfast, but you don’t need to share your business with the entire world, Ian. Mickey has earned his respect around here, ten fold. I trust it was a decision he made with careful consideration.”

“Does he know?”

“That I know? Have you met the man? He’s a little slow on the dismount, wouldn’t you say?” she teased, waving him over.

Ian pulled his arm back. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because we’re his family, too. Love doesn’t come knocking all that often.”

Mickey jogged over to them; his grin made more infectious by the two sharp points fixed beside his front teeth. “Time to take this shit off, Gallagher?”

Charlotte gave the instructor a tight hug, turning his eyes wide before he slung an arm around her in reciprocation. “I like your new boyfriend,” she said as she moved to stretch her arms between them, hands clasped at his shoulders. “Don’t screw it up.”

\----------

Mickey held his students to high standards, waiting for them to pack up and clean their stations until they glistened. When the exam ended, and the noise of the day diminished with the last group to clamor down the halls, he took a moment to appreciate the subtle buzzing of the overhead lights, and the restful redhead exerting soft snores on folded arms at his desk.

He had to swallow the frog in his throat when Charlotte confronted him, but glancing down at Ian, his broad shoulders rising and falling as he slept, it was a miracle the entire school was incapable of noticing the affection radiating from him in recent months.

“Time to go, Sleepyface,” Mickey murmured, slumping in his chair across from his redhead. “Hey—Ian. Gotta get up, man. We’ll be crashing here for the night if they lock up the school.”

Ian mumbled, burrowing his face deeper. “You’ve got keys.”

“The mall, then. They lock that up and we won’t be able to leave.”

“Would that be so bad? I’m exhausted, Mick. Toss me your sweater and I’ll be good ‘til morning.”

“Stay, but I’m going out for a beer. Last I checked, I owed you one of those.”

Ian’s head shot up like a little boy, a grin crinkling the edges of his eyes. “Oh yeah! You promised you’d take me out.”

“You’re a faker,” Mickey chortled, leaning his upper body across the desk to plant a kiss on Ian’s forehead. “Grab your stuff, don’t forget your guitar.”

“Is Mandy still waiting for us?”

“Nah. Told her to take my car and head home.”

Ian flung the instrument over his shoulder, slinging his makeup bags in the crook of his arm. “Are we taking the bus?”

Gift giving was Mickey’s kryptonite, but he deserved a pat on the back for this one. “Let me take that, don’t need your sleepy ass tripping over your bags and getting hurt.”

\----------

Winter in Los Angeles was the season of hoodies and windbreakers. Mickey hadn’t owned a pair of gloves since they moved from Chicago. The two of them worked up a sweat huffing it six blocks to a used car dealership, crowded with floating and flailing attractants put in place by some presumptuous sales associate, lights flashing at the edge of the rooftop, the odd bulb dark from neglect.

When Mickey turned into the driveway, Ian jogged to catch up, the wheels of his rolling bag clattering along uneven cement. There were several onlookers mulling around, overzealous salespeople at their heels, a glossy BMW with a bright red bow parked off to the side away from the lot.

“What’re we doing here?”

“Picking up your graduation present.”

A muscular arm snatched his wrist, pulling him backward. “We better be here for air fresheners, Mick.”

“We can grab a few of those, too,” Mickey mollified, tugging him in for a kiss by the collar of his jacket.

After a trying day of resisting urges, they fell into a rhythm with ease, losing themselves in playful tugs of war, chasing lips and teasing tongues, whispering the things they couldn’t say at school. Ian dropped his bags on the ground, no doubt shattering a tray of eyeshadow or a bottle of fake blood, but they didn’t flinch, only pulled each other closer.

“Um—Mr. Milkovich?” a voice interrupted, causing them both to jump. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb you and your partner. My boss wanted me to clarify about the sound system installation—was that this Saturday, or next Saturday?”

“Sound system installation?” Ian asked, tilting his head like a puppy with a whistle. “For your car?”

“I told you, we’re here for _your_ graduation present.”

“You bought me a sound system?”

“I bought you a car, with a shitty stock sound system, so I ordered you a better one.”

“Mick—”

The antsy merchandiser cleared his throat. “Shall I leave you two alone?”

“The appointment is for this Saturday,” Mickey said, twisting to face the gentleman. “Thank you. Now please grab the keys for the white BMW.”

Ian followed his line of sight, mouth dropping open when his eyes landed on the sporty ride. “That looks like yours.”

“That’s because it is. Well, same idea.”

Ian wandered to the vehicle, guitar bouncing at his back. He inspected the gift in disbelief, looking up at Mickey from the other side. “I can’t accept this, Mick.”

“I thought you might say that, so I came prepared.”

The gentleman jogged back from the office, tossing the keys over his head for Mickey to catch. He unlocked the doors with a pleasant beep, halo lights flashing twice and cutting through the dimly lit car lot. Ian opened the driver’s door with hesitance, chuckling as Mickey grabbed his guitar and snapped at him to hurry his ass up.

He spent their plane ride home from Chicago searching for a suitable vehicle while Ian and Mandy harassed the flight attendants for enough cups of orange juice to build a tower between their tray tables. It was a calamity to watch, and they annoyed every person within six feet, but it bought him time to narrow the results to the same make and model as the one he drove. It was a purchase he predicted would garner some pushback, so he had the vehicle brought over to the used car dealership to make it appear less extravagant. If he agreed to order equipment and pay for installation, they allowed him to park the vehicle for a small fee. He didn’t want anyone touching it before Ian, so they stuck him with limited options for installation. 

Mickey joined him, sliding into the passenger seat. “Like it?”

“It looks brand new,” Ian wheezed, running his hands over the leather steering wheel. When the redhead checked the glove-box, it eliminated his subterfuge. “It _is_ brand new! Look—it says the year right here. Isn’t this a used car dealership?”

“They must’ve made a mistake, man. Car is ancient. You gotta punch your feet through the floor and Flintstone your ass through the city. Hope that’s not a problem.”

Ian’s laughter turned his body light as air. It was the only music better than the stuff Ian played for him.

“I love you, Mickey, but this is too much. Thank you for doing this, but I’ll never be able to repay you. I’m not sure I’d even be able to afford the insurance, I struggled to afford my bus pass before you scared that club manager out of his cheque book.”

“I’ve covered insurance for a year. You don’t gotta repay me, it’s a gift. You deserve it.”

The redhead laced their fingers together, pulling their hands to his chest. “I haven’t done a single thing to deserve this.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, man. You spent five hundred bucks on a junk guitar just to play me cheesy songs in the ballpark. You didn’t think twice.”

“Tremendous difference between a guitar and a BMW, Mick.”

“Only difference is the price tag. The intentions are the same. We take care of each other, Ian. You can’t live in LA and not have a car. Not if you want to work on set. You need wheels, man. I want to help you get a head start, that’s all.”

“No more gifts.”

Mickey wiggled his hand free to pass the redhead his keys. “I’m not making any promises.”

The engine roared to life, a grin splitting Ian’s face. “You said you came prepared, what were you gonna do if I didn’t accept it?”

“Oh, I was going to ask you to move in with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to let Mickey spoil Ian for a while. The tables always turn. Thank you for reading, I adore every comment.


	17. To Build a Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy pushes her brother out of his comfort zone. Gallavich panics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for your kindness and encouragement in the comments, they have made this story even more enjoyable for me to write. We have some angst in this chapter, but it's fleeting. Plenty of smut, fluff, and fun to come. I hope you enjoy. Stay safe out there, my friends.

Ian woke up to his phone on fire. His family asking for pictures of his final, Mandy sending him angry emojis for being the first to get a car out of Mickey, and Dallis to remind him it had been a thousand years since they went on a run together.

Groggy, he flipped to his stomach, pillow crushed between his chin and his chest, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he took a moment to reflect on the previous night.

Mickey had smirked in the passenger seat as Ian drained the gas tank of his shiny new ride through the Hollywood Hills. Even when it got late, and they risked running out of gas stations to stop in at, they cruised with the music loud, and their problems in the dust. They were still young, but in that moment, it stripped years from them both, laughing and sharing memories from back home. The man went from stealing Snickers bars to educating himself about savings accounts and jumping out of airplanes. He transcended what they stamped on him at birth. There wasn’t a sexier attribute.

Ian needed his family to see that before they lost their minds over how fast he fell in love. Bipolar mania wasn’t the only happiness he experienced. Sometimes you just meet someone, and it teaches you why past relationships failed. It wasn’t the same as Fiona and Gus, or Lip and his girls. Something in his gut told him that no matter what circumstances, age, or timeline he met Mickey, he would fall, and fall hard. Mental illness stole a lot from him, but not Mickey. The man was too good for his health to let his genetic shortcomings win.

His body cracked as he stretched for the first time in twelve hours, sucking back a day old bottle of lukewarm water before loosening his muscles in a scalding shower. They may have driven the streets of LA all night, but it wasn’t the only thing they rode, and the confines of a backseat was a recipe for neck kinks and unused muscles.

As Ian was tying his towel around his waist, Mason thrashed at the other side of the bathroom door. He ignored it for a minute, sending his boyfriend a shot of the almost perfect line of hickeys trailing down his stomach.

“That is disgusting,” Mason said with a grimace. “Animals.”

“And to think this was only foreplay,” Ian retorted, shoving past him and into his bedroom.

The temperamental gnome lingered in the doorway as Ian rummaged through his closet for that green shirt Mickey liked to peel off him with his teeth. He tossed it on the bed, waiting for his roommate to begin the merry-go-round of nagging.

“Are you signing the lease or not?”

“Not,” Ian said in a single breath. “I’m moving out the day after I graduate.”

“That’s less than two weeks from now.”

“Wow, Mase. NASA must be in ruins without your impeccable calculations.”

Mason shifted his weight in the doorway. “I have to schedule apartment tours.”

“Fill your boots. Don’t forget to remind the poor suckers how important it is to you to be the boss.”

His roommate turned on his heels, leaving him with the trademark slam of his door, rattling the walls. Ian shook his head at the petulance. When vibrations skittered across his bedside table, it was a welcome distraction.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Mickey purred before Ian greeted him.

“Sounds like someone’s in a good mood today.”

“How can I fuckin’ not be? That pic has me walking on three legs. Might have to relieve some tension before we go.”

Mandy’s shrill protest crackled in the background, chortles ringing out between them.

“Guess that means you’re still at home, huh? I’m already dressed—hurry.”

Happy Mickey was the best Mickey, his smile translating through the phone with ease.

“Hold your damn horses, Red. I’m comin’.”

“Hate to miss it. Love when you come.”

“Mm. Gonna hold you to that.”

Another shout of objection, and a pummel from Mickey’s sibling ended their call, leaving Ian’s cheeks in flames. He might have some tension of his own to deal with.

\----------

Mandy babbled in the backseat, shoving printouts of apartments and houses she found online onto Ian’s lap. They wanted to scout potential places together before Mickey dove into his next major film project, set to begin in a matter of days.

“This one looks nice,” Ian said, holding the paper up on the dashboard for Mickey to peruse at the stoplight. “Two-car garage.”

Mandy huffed. “Yeah, guess that leaves my ass in the driveway.”

“Bitch, you don’t even have a car.”

“Shut up, Mick. Maybe I’ll find a boyfriend with a fat wallet, too.”

Mickey raised a middle finger at that, turning his focus back to the road.

“How much is rent?” Ian asked, scanning his finger over the property details. “They cut the numbers off or we’re missing a page.”

Mandy gave a flippant shrug. “We’ll find out when we get there. Want me to call and set up an appointment for viewing?”

The boys deliberated between themselves, pointing out the pros and cons of living in a Leave it to Beaver neighborhood off the beaten path, with a breathtaking view. Mandy reminded them of the grassy front and back yard, cathedral ceilings, and quartz countertops. Not that Ian had any clue what that meant beyond the excitement bursting from her in waves.

“No pool, though,” Mickey said, half teasing. “Gonna sweat our balls off all summer.”

Mandy scoffed, leaning between them to change the radio station. “Not like you can swim worth shit.”

“You don’t know how to swim?”

“I fucking know how to swim,” Mickey blurted, shoving Mandy back by her forehead. “Not signing up for Olympic diving, but I ain’t gonna sink or anything.”

Ian found pleasure at the thought of his badass boyfriend doing the doggy paddle. “I could teach you.”

“You ain’t gonna teach me shit, Red. Did you call the place or what?”

Already cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, she smacked him at the back of the head as he drove past the fourth fast-food joint. “I’m starving, Mickey.”

“ _I’m starving, Mickey_ ,” he repeated with a mocking drawl, snatching her wrist when she attempted another smack.

Ian loved them. He loved them so much.

\----------

Mickey almost lost his appetite watching his sister and boyfriend knock their Shirley Temple’s over on the table during a thumb war, and not from embarrassment. It filled him with jitters from head to toe, watching them bond like they had known each other since elementary school. He ate in silence, as they enticed the swollen cheeked chipmunks in the restaurant to rubberneck at their adolescent performance, causing him to ruminate on his previous relationship.

It was something he avoided at all costs. Reminders of Logan curdled his happiness and left a sour feeling at the pit of his stomach. Since his world collided with Ian, he struggled to find a single thing his ex did for him that didn’t border on unpleasant. The worst of it all was how dangerous he and Mandy teetered to separate near the end. When she started looking for another place to live, it twisted him up in ways he didn’t understand. He wanted her to live her life, and if she met someone great and they took the next step, he would never stop her from leaving. But his decisions affecting her in such a negative way that she couldn’t stand to be around him, was a wake up call.

Ian brought them closer together. It was why Mandy was so thrilled at the thought of sharing a place, and why he wasn’t nervous to suggest it. It posed challenges, but nothing they wouldn’t be able to overcome. She struggled to trust anyone outside their small circle, but the redhead was a genuine friend. His morals matched theirs, his spontaneous disposition letting the light into the areas that had become too rigid. He encouraged them to play and enjoy themselves without sacrificing stability. If he hand picked a partner, Ian would still be better than anything he’d piece together for himself.

They finished up their meal, the redhead insisting they take a handful of unopened packs of crayons because you never know when you’ll need them, before they cruised to their first viewing.

The disappointment that befell them was immediate since the place sucked. Second and third one, too. Builders crowded the apartments with poor floor plans, the views were shit, and the building managers so slimy they left a trail behind them as they walked. One of them even had the balls to hit on Ian, which, a few years earlier, would’ve landed the asshat in the ER. It was exhausting and a little disheartening. Critters on the walls didn’t deter the owners from charging life and limb either. Their hearts sunk walking out of the last place, mumbling to each other that someone infiltrated the city with scumbag landlords and crooks. 

Until they pulled onto that serene street with the wide, treelined sidewalks, leading them to a modern, single family home.

Ian and Mandy both gasped, and it was as sweet as it was amusing. “Holy shit.”

Mandy threw herself out of the car in a flash, leaving them alone for a moment to take it all in. He reached for Ian’s hand, melting into his gaze. “You sure you wanna do this, Gallagher?”

“I’m ready,” he smiled, squeezing until their knuckles turned white. “Look at the yard, Mick.”

“You like it?”

“It’s great. We could have a garden if we wanted, oh! A trampoline. Wait, that’s stupid since we don’t have any kids. It’s big enough we could get a—”

“Eh, one thing at a time,” Mickey interjected, yanking him across the center console to press a wet kiss on his cheek. “I love you.”

Mandy thumped on the glass, gesturing for him to roll down his window.

“ _What_?” he snapped, earning a scowl from his sibling.

“The realtor’s waiting. Move your ass—I wanna see the kitchen.”

Ian wriggled his hand free, reaching up to ruffle Mickey’s hair. “I have a good feeling about this one, Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

\----------

Mickey could not understand why anyone would rent the house out. It was too good to be true.

Three massive, sunny bedrooms, two remodeled bathrooms and an ensuite with a jacuzzi. A kitchen to die for, according to his flamboyant sister running her paws all over the appliances, and a family room begging for them to convert it into a theater to waste too many hours wrapped up together.

It was gorgeous, denying it was futile. He imagined building a porch swing where Ian could play guitar, and a spot to put his easel when inspiration struck. Sunsets with their bare skin in the soft grass of their fenced back yard, eyelids growing heavy, watching fluffy clouds drift by.

The house was a home.

Ian left the squealing to Mandy, padding into the backyard to grab a cigarette and take it all in.

“You look like a fuckin’ suburban mom, quit leaving your fingerprints on everything.”

“They made this kitchen for your wife,” the realtor said, exaggerated in his tone and delivery. “I can already envision her entertaining your guests with that impressive dry bar and modern beverage refrigerator.”

“Alright, cool it with the sales pitch. She’s my sister,” he corrected, gesturing to the redhead at the other side of the sliding glass door. “Ian’s my partner.”

“My apologies, sir. Will this be your first purchase together?”

Mandy’s eyes bugged out of her head, clenching her teeth in an overstated grin like they had caught her red handed stealing money from a collection basket in church.

“Purchase?”

The realtor glanced between the siblings with a confused smile. “Yes. This property is for sale, fresh on the market. You’re the first family to view it since the owners put it up.”

“Can you give us a minute?” Mickey asked, the other man nodding and disappearing down the hall. He stuck an indignant finger in Mandy’s direction. “Explain yourself, bitch.”

“We’ve been talking about getting a bigger place.”

“Renting. We’ve been talking about renting a bigger place. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

Ian stumbled inside, grinning cheek to cheek. “I love it out there,” he announced, wrapping his long arms around his lover, and nuzzling playful kisses against his neck. “ _Breathtaking view_ wasn’t far off.”

“Yeah, well, hope you’re prepared to be out of breath ‘til you’re sixty.”

“Huh?”

“Dumbass over here neglected to inform us that this ain’t a rental.”

Mandy hopped onto the counter, mouth twisting into a sneer. “You’re blowing shit out of proportion. This house is perfect.”

“Have you lost your mind? We can’t buy this place. Get down from there, we’re leaving.”

“Mickey!”

“Get in the damn car, Mandy.”

“No.”

Her demeanor changed in a flash. She turned her face away, blinking as her crystal blue eyes glossed over against natural daylight. He could count on one hand how many times he’d seen her cry, which was saying something, since she was the most dramatic woman he had ever met.

“What do you mean, no?”

“Did I stutter? I’m not leaving. Not until you hear me out.”

Ian took a few steps backward, an attempt to make his giant body less pronounced. He leaned against the armrest of the couch as Mickey realized they must have staged it all to intrigue potential buyers.

“Start talking.”

“I want to paint my room.”

“Jesus Christ, paint your room.”

“We can’t do that in a rental.”

“Says who? We end up losing our damage deposit, so what?”

She folded her hands in her lap, staring at her feet. “I’m tired of having nothing. I want something that’s mine, something stable. We can have that now, we’re allowed to have things. We have steady jobs, and I checked with the bank, my credit is good. Yours would be even better, you’d qualify for a place like this. With both of us on the deed, or all three of us, it would be cake. Maybe I’d get inspired to take some courses, go back to school. Get a degree or some shit.”

“Your indecisive ass can’t commit to thirty days at the gym. This is ridiculous. We’re leaving.”

“Go straight to hell, Mickey.”

“What were you thinking, huh? We’re a couple skids from the Southside. No paper trail or career will change that. You left those floating shelves on the floor for a year until you decided it was easier to toss ’em out than hang ’em. No way. Let’s go.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she choked, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Like I didn’t spend my entire teenage life taking care of you. I wanted to give up plenty of times, but I didn’t. Years I watched you struggle and tried to keep you from giving up. Years I never left your side. Do not act like I’m some flakey bitch.”

His chest constricted and before he could stop her, she darted out the front door, rattling the adjacent windows as it slammed behind her.

Ian remained quiet, waiting.

“Am I wrong here?” Mickey asked, throat tight. “This is a dumb fucking idea, right?”

“Depends. Is it buying a house you’re scared of, or buying a house with me?”

“I ain’t scared, man.”

“What is it, then?”

“I dunno—permanent roots in a city I don’t give a fuck about. Who knows what life will look like six months from now? I’m not made for the white picket fence crap, okay? Shit changes. People come and go.”

He winced as the words spilled out, immediate regret at the hurt on Ian’s face. It wasn’t what he meant to say, his insecurities bubbling over before he could catch himself. He wanted a home, too. The situation just took him by surprise. It made him panic, wanting something he never thought he could have, with the instant painful reminder that Milkovich kids might not deserve it.

“People come and go, huh?”

“Ian—”

“No, I get it. We just met each other, right? It’s nuts for us to have this.”

“Stop. That’s not what I meant. Can you just—please just wait a second.”

Ian was already halfway to the door. “I’ll find my own way home,” he said without so much as looking over his shoulder. “You should apologize to your sister. You were a jerk.”

“Don’t leave.”

The door slammed a second time, and the silence was deafening.

“Um, hi. Sorry—do you guys need some more time to mull it over?” the realtor asked, timid as he padded into the living room. “I can give you my card, if you need to take a few days.”

\----------

Ian turned his phone off, careening down a side street to avoid being found. He was aware it was moody, and not conducive to healthy communication in a relationship, but there were bus stops all over the city, and he needed to calm down. A long walk would do him some good. He needed to clear his head.

Was it a mistake leaving? He could have reassured Mickey that he wasn’t going anywhere, and he didn’t care where they lived, but it stripped him raw to hear his deepest fears spill out from his boyfriend’s mouth. People came and went, and life changed on a whim. It was true. He was a musician living off gigs and random busking. Who was he to assume a house was within reach? They weren’t on the same playing field. Determination and talent established Mickey in his career. Entire tax brackets separated their financial situations. He had nobody to blame but himself for falling so hard for a pipedream.

Forty-five minutes without a bus stop in sight, he slumped down on the sidewalk, waiting for his phone to reboot. Text notifications popped up, but he ignored them.

“About time you called, turd—I was thinking you replaced me. Ready for a run?”

“Can you come pick me up, Dal?”

“Where are you, are you okay?”

He squinted at the closest street signs, giving her a vague description of the area. “I’m fine. Just need a lift, I’m a little lost.”

“It’ll take me a bit with traffic, but I’ll leave now. Are you sure you’re okay?”

The question choked him up, and he despised how it always happened like that. It was easier not to talk about how he was feeling. He wanted to tell her what happened, but fighting against the burn in his chest left him snuffling.

“Okay—I feel you,” she whispered, keys jingling as she huffed through her apartment. “I’m on my way.”

He held the phone to his ear long after the call disconnected, before staring at his reflection in the black screen. His weary face was no sign of the storm brewing under his skin, and it was time to pull himself together.

If Mickey saw himself as a skid mark on society after spending years Northside and becoming a success, it must mean Ian was as appealing as a can of wet dog food in an apocalypse. He wondered when the novelty of a boyfriend with an instrument strapped to his body would wear off, and when he’d realize Ian was a dead weight. Trevor never came out and said it, but the strain of huffing his baggage around was a notable downside, no matter how hard Ian tried to build something special out of the bricks life pelted him with. 

A squad of busy ants marching along the sidewalk caught his attention, carrying tiny debris on their backs, only breaking assembly to skitter around rocks and drain grates. Life for them was uncomplicated, he supposed. Before he could draw parallels, the sound of Dal’s rusted van backfiring from a mile away pulled him from his thoughts. Plumes of black smoke billowed in the distance, and despite his mind trying to convince him he was the worst person, he let himself smile. Dallis left sometimes, but she always came back.

By the time she pulled up to the curb, he had regained some control over his emotions, wiped out from the hurricane he immersed himself in.

“Hey stranger. Get in. We have some catching up to do.”

\----------

Mickey’s knee bounced as he sent another text, crushing his depleted cigarette in the ashtray among a sea of butts. It was getting a little pathetic, and if he were honest, his lungs needed a break.

“Give him time, Mick,” Mandy said as she dropped on the sofa beside him. “He’s upset. Let him cool off.”

The drive home was agonizing and took twice as long since he insisted on pulling into every side street on the way. He and his sister were no stranger to bickering, and their old trauma responses came to a head every so often, but they understood each other. They would always work it out. Ian didn’t have the same connection to him, and the fear was destabilizing. 

“Can you text him? He’ll answer you.”

“I tried.”

“What the fuck’s the point of having the damn thing if he ignores it?”

Mandy grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, dropping one in his lap as she plunked down on the coffee table. “He might need some space to process things.”

“What do you mean—like breaking up or something? I should head over to his place, see if he’s home.”

“Don’t be stupid, he adores you,” she pacified, twisting the cap off her beer with a hiss. “But showing up on his doorstep tonight is a bad idea.”

“Well, I can’t just sit around with my dick in my hand.”

She braced her arms behind her on the coffee table. “People need space. You know that better than anyone.”

“Space is a fuckin’ terrible idea. I hate that shit. All it does is postpone the inevitable and make me stress all night about shit I can’t fix while we’re apart. Why can’t I ever keep my damn mouth shut?”

“Trauma,” she snickered, burping before taking another long pull from her beer. “Stop being so hard on yourself. I freaked you out. It happens.”

“The house was your idea though, how come you’re not freaked out?”

“I don’t know—I guess because I’m tired of paying someone else’s mortgage and having to pack boxes when the dive we settled for loses appeal. It’s not like I’m in love with the idea of never leaving LA. I want to travel and see more of the world. But we’ve made a life for ourselves here, and it would be good for us to try exploring our options. Would it be so bad having something to call our own while we’re at it? We have nothing to run from anymore.”

“We don’t know shit about owning a house, Mands.”

“Nobody ever does until they try. It’s not like we can’t ask our dads for help and advice. We’re not out at sea with blindfolds and shit.”

“What if Ian leaves—what if we don’t work out?”

“Then we pick ourselves up and keep going, but Mick, you can’t have one foot out the door just because you expect everyone to abandon you. That ginger fuck loves you. I think you could have what our dads have if you take a chance and stop being such a pussy.”

He sat back, throbbing with pain at his temples, letting the cushions engulf him. She had a point. They dumped thousands of dollars into their shit hole apartment every month, with nothing to show for it once they moved out. Sure, he might want to venture away from the city in the future, but the life they had built wasn’t the kind he needed a vacation from anymore. The things he loved were a stone's throw away, including that damn redhead.

It could be a nightmare moving in with someone he hadn’t known for more than a few months, and the pressure of an enormous commitment like home ownership could tip the scale. It had the potential to lead to something even more incredible, like everything else with Ian had been, but what if redhead decided he didn’t want to bear the weight of his crappy reactions to his even crappier childhood, and he’s left with an empty bed in a big, lonely house?

Mandy finished her beer, giving her brother’s knee a squeeze before taking off to her bedroom. He didn’t know she wanted to paint her room. What obnoxious colour did she have in mind, anyway?

It wouldn’t suck to have more freedom. He didn’t hate the thought of having something valuable for his future nieces and nephews to inherit one day, or maybe a kid of his own. One with red hair and ridiculous freckles. Because even if Ian was fearful of passing his genetics onto some poor unsuspecting child, the world needed more of him.

Mickey pulled the realtors business card out of his wallet, tapping it on his thigh.

A dog might be nice. 

\----------

Dallis slurped at the bottom of her empty milkshake glass, while Ian gave her the lowdown on all she had missed, waving down their server for another plate of onion rings. He shared tidbits while she was away, but nothing more than grinning selfies with cheesy captions, and the moments she caught before they disappeared for the holiday. There was a lot to account for over a brief span of time. The good points outweighing the bad, making him forget what upset him to begin with.

“You know that’s like an eighty thousand dollar car, right?” Dallis smirked, tipping her head toward the pearlescent graduation gift gleaming at them through the window of the diner. “You sure he’s not involved in organized crime?”

“He teaches people to sky dive,” Ian said, wincing at the price tag ringing through his head. “He works hard.”

“Does he teach them to sky dive straight into bank vaults, ’cause sign me up.”

They snickered over the rims of their glasses, stretching out to ease the pain of emotional indulgence. The deep fried pickles they ordered were yet to arrive, and their stomachs were moments from splitting.

“You’d love him, Dal. I’ve never wanted to know someone so bad in my life. Everything he does makes him more attractive to me. Even when he flips out and acts like a jerk—it’s like, I get it. I know where it’s coming from because we walked the same busted ass streets for a long time and we’re both super fucked up under it all. But then he’s gentle, you know? When it’s just us, he’s this sensitive guy with an enormous heart and he smells so fucking good.”

“I gathered that from the sweater incident,” she teased, kicking him under the table. “Why haven’t you told your family about him yet?”

“I’ve got enough of my own doubts to sift through. Don’t need them adding to it.”

She nodded, cringing as another plate of scorching impulsions landed on their table. “Preaching to the choir, dude. You should give them a chance, though. If they find a reason to pick it apart, remind them how great you’ve done out here. It’s impossible not to be happy for you.”

He took a few beats to admire his friend. Attention span like a river rock, twisting a tendril of hair at the pretty hostess walking customers back and forth through the restaurant. She had game like Ian had never seen, but her loyalty rivalled her promiscuity by a long shot.

A call sent his phone buzzing into the saltshaker, enough to peak Dal’s attention, lightning fast reflexes snatching up the device to his vexation.

“Gallagher’s phone,” she crooned, giggling when he sent a napkin dispenser flying into the aisle trying to reach her from across the table. “How may I help you?”

“Dallis!” Ian hissed, his heart doing cartwheels.

“Mhm—mhm,” she murmured, all but standing on the booth to keep the phone out of reach of grabby hands. “So, you’re the boyfriend I keep hearing so much about.”

“Dal, I swear to God!”

She fixed her gaze on the hostess who was seeming to enjoy the bedlam taking place, bobbing her head at the voice on the other end.

“Well, you see Mickey, we’re just enjoying some pickles right now, but I’ll see about arranging that. I must talk to my people first, you understand.”

Ian was ready to climb the nearest cell tower to put an end to the atrocity. “Dallis Marie, give me that phone or I’ll cut you with this spork.” They constructed it from flimsy plastic and it faded pink from too many sessions in the industrial dishwasher. But a weapon was a weapon.

She held her hand up like he was interrupting an important business call, and he was unchivalrous to even attempt it. “I see. That is quite a quandary you’re facing.”

“I hate you,” he mumbled under his breath, pondering how effective the spork would be if he needed to dig himself out of the booth and to the center of the earth to evaporate.

“How about this, Mickey—I’m going to send you a ping and if we’re still here by the time you get your act together, you can ask him yourself?”

There had to be a spoon around them somewhere. The spork just wasn’t menacing enough.

She made eye contact with Ian, features softening. “Yes, he’s okay. Still a pretty boy, not even a scratch. A few more freckles from his time in the sun this afternoon—you know how the soulless ones get. You’ll still be able to recognize him.”

By the time Dallis hung up the phone, his stomach had endured so many flip flops he wasn’t sure he settled his food enough to speak out loud.

She flailed her arm like a child for the bill, garnering chortles from the blushing girl at the podium, before waggling her brows at Ian like she hadn’t just committed a felony against their friendship.

“I like him, does he have a sister?”

“I should disown you right where you sit.”

“Great voice, epic sense of humour. Big dick energy but not offensively so.”

She accepted the bill with a sparkling grin, tossing a complimentary mint at his forehead while she fished in her purse for crumpled bills and a handful of change.

“Let me pay for this.”

“Nope, call it part of your graduation gift. Sorry I couldn’t buy you a luxury car, Mickey beat me to the punch on that one.”

“Is he coming here right now? How far away is he?”

“No clue, I’m not your receptionist,” she snorted, settling a vape pen between her teeth, and sliding out of the booth. “Wanna find out?”

\----------

Ian wasn’t cold, but his body shivered, dragging his boot on the pavement to keep himself from internal combustion. The crunch of tires on gravel had him craning his neck every few minutes as a strange vehicle pulled into the lot to park. Patrons checked out his car on their way out, nodding to him in approval like he didn’t gain it from his boyfriend, who at any second, was going to pull up and make his mouth too dry to swallow.

Dallis left her van parked outside his building, demanding a ride in his new whip. And he would regret it if anxiety didn’t inundate him.

“Did he sound mad?” Ian asked, his friend too enamored with social media to look up. “Annoyed at all?”

“I haven’t met him to compare emotional octaves, but he seemed fine to me.”

“What did he say?”

She grinned, chuckling at a post before dropping her distraction to the bottom of her bag. “No spoilers.”

“We should move away from the door. This is an awkward spot to apologize.”

A blue BMW rounded the corner, pulling into the lot. Ian hoped he might park at the far side to shroud them in a sliver of privacy, but the vehicle pulled in right next to his, like their own miniature car club for bewildered gay disasters.

The blinding light from the diner did nothing to disguise the suffering Mickey’s bottom lip was undergoing, a hand sliding through dark hair as he collected himself. Now he wanted Dallis to disappear, not knowing how to apologize profusely and make a proper introduction at the same time.

Dallis, the awkward third wheel she had become, made the first move, as his fidgeting boyfriend scrambled out of the car.

“What’s kickin’ Mickey,” she greeted, rings of raspberry cheesecake wafting from her mouth, vape pen loaded with sickly sweet at all times. “I believe we spoke over the phone.”

Her foolhardy attitude made the man smile, sending alarms to Ian’s lymphatic system.

“That we did,” Mickey retorted, reaching out to shake her hand. She took it with grace, settling back on the window ledge to maintain a mellow vibe. Something Ian lost somewhere between the day he met Mickey and right then. “Where you guys headed next?”

Ian froze, hoping Dallis could salvage a plan. She pulled it off with ease. “Ian owes me guitar lessons; we were going to head back to his place.”

“Oh yeah? Didn’t know you were teachin’,” Mickey grinned, reigniting the waves of adrenaline pumping through him.

“Yeah, well, I’m his unofficial weird sock supplier, so it’s a deal we have. Don’t tell anyone, though. Top secret.”

Clammy fingers brushed up against Ian’s, waiting for permission without being apparent. Ian turned his hand palm up, letting out a long awaited breath when they intertwined.

“Wanna join us?” he asked, terrified of rejection, and hoping it wasn’t obvious. “Dallis can take my car, I could ride shotgun with you.”

Mickey’s thumb brushed along his hand with a squeeze. “Sounds great.”

“Gimme, gimme, gimme!” Dallis squealed, swiping the keys, and bolting for the driver’s door. “I might take the long way back, don’t wait up.”

Ian, protective over his gift, whistled high and loud to get her full attention.

“Yes, dear?”

“Scratch her, and I take a kidney, understood?”

Mickey snorted, and if Ian wasn’t mistaken, there was some pride in it.

“Yes, master,” Dallis razzed, exaggerating her careful movements as she slid onto the leather seats and pulled away.

Mickey reached for Ian’s free hand, guiding them face to face. They gazed at each other, a soft frown pulling between Mickey’s eyebrows as he raked his teeth over his bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Ian. I lost my shit today, but it wasn’t about you. Sometimes I panic. This is the first time in my life I’ve wanted these kinds of things, and I’m worried I’ll fuck it up somehow.”

“It’s not your fault, Mick. I get it. I’m sorry too.”

“You got nothin’ to be sorry for, man. I was an asshole.”

“Nah, we put you on the spot. I shouldn’t have walked away like I did. It’s okay if you’re not ready, we can wait. I don’t mind finding a rental for a while. I just want to be with you. We have time to figure this stuff out. You have that film project coming up, right? It might not be the best time to worry about moving, so we can pump the brakes for now. Enjoy each other for a while, I don’t mind.”

Mickey lifted their joined hands to his chest, thumbs brushing over Ian’s knuckles, the creases on his forehead fading. “I put a bid on the house tonight. We gotta wait for the banks and shit, but I got the ball rolling.”

Ian’s pulse sped up, pumping in his neck, dizzy from excitement. “You did? Are you sure—is this what you want?”

“Meant everything I said, Red. Every word. I love you so much it makes me fuckin’ crazy,” Mickey murmured, sliding his hands up to cradle Ian’s face, feather soft fingertips grazing his cheeks. “I’m scared. But I think about my life before you and I can’t believe I made it this far without your quirky ass.”

“I love you too, Mickey. I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll move in with me so we can do stupid shit like decorate Christmas trees, and hang pictures, and crap. We’ll get you a special closet for your embarrassing socks, and one of those swings you can play music on in the backyard.”

“They’re not embarrassing, okay?” Ian tittered, bending down to brush their noses together. “You’re a bully.”

“Say it. Say you’ll move in with me,” Mickey whispered, warm breath teasing tender lips. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while, Gallagher. I wanna build a life with you—the forever kind.”

Ian closed his eyes, fighting back tears. He leaned into Mickey, arms wrapped tight around his back, slow, gentle pressure to lips he had waited his entire life to kiss.

“I’m all the way in, Milkovich. All the way.”


	18. Open Mic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys fall harder, if that's even possible.

Dallis jogged in place, scattered clouds painted red behind her as the sun rose. It would’ve been a sight to remember if Ian hadn’t stayed up all night talking to Mickey on the phone until their whispering voices cracked from overuse.

“What took you so long?” Dallis griped, slapping the palms of her hands against knee lifts as she waited for Ian to stretch. “I’ve been burning holes in the sidewalk.”

“We can’t all eat Pixy Stix for breakfast,” Ian said with a groan, tight muscles in his back begging him to go back to bed.

“Boyfriend keep you up late?”

“No.”

She snorted in disbelief, transitioning into rapid hops over an invisible jump rope. “Your outfit determined that was a lie.”

He glanced down to huff at the inside out garment. “Ever heard of a reversible shirt, Maury Povich?”

“You don’t get to fail at getting dressed and call it fashion.”

Ian rolled his eyes heavenward, matching her rhythm as he warmed up in place. “We had a lot to talk about, that’s all.”

“I guess nobody has explained this relationship factoid to you, but phone sex doesn’t count as vital discussion. Especially when it results in you leaving your best friend on the sidewalk like a kitten in a soggy box.”

Ian lunged in her direction, producing a loud shriek from her giggling form, the racket echoing between shoddy structures surrounding them. An irate neighbor shouted over their balcony in outrage, motivating them to get a move on.

It was a gorgeous morning, warm enough to forgo a jacket as winter approached. It was something Ian enjoyed about living so far from Chicago. Early runs back home were downright dangerous before they salted the sidewalks and nine times out of ten, the city turned a blind eye to the Back of the Yards. Never too poor to break a leg, never wealthy enough to avoid it. They seasoned Los Angeles with scenic running paths and boulevards to pound out some pavement cardio. The beaches were a major perk.

“So, tell me—what riveting non-dick-related topics did you cover?” Dallis asked, panting as they reached their third mile. “My lonesome heart is starving for vicarious passion.”

Any excuse to talk about Mickey made his blood pump faster. “Commitment stuff. Working through what happened with Mandy and the house situation.”

“How responsible of you,” she grinned, jabbing his arm with her swaying elbow. “Do you feel better about it all?”

Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to shake his nerves until they dove deeper into their spat. Even after Mickey came over to watch Dallis blame his guitar for her musical shortcomings, there was notable unresolved tension. Not ample enough to the worry the blind eye, but enough to entice Mickey to reach out when he got home.

“I think so. The house thing freaked him out a lot, which I get. Still hurt though, y’know? It was nice to talk it out, clear the air.”

“Still a green light on the big move, then?”

They slowed to a power walk, weaving around fellow athletes kicking up dust in the other direction. “Well, the process takes a couple months. If we don’t crash and burn by then, all systems go, I guess.”

His best friend thwarted his valiant effort to tamp down on his bubbling excitement, snickering at his faux insouciance. “You think you’re going to screw it up.”

“I mean—I don’t want to.”

Dallis grabbed his arm, dropping them onto a bench to catch their breath. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple. Just ‘cause you got the dreamboat, doesn’t mean you stop filling it with fuel, right?”

Ian bit back a smile. “Is that a sex thing?”

“No, you absolute toddler. It’s a healthy relationship thing. If you want the momentum to flow, keep your effort consistent. The mushy crap you’re doing now, don’t pull back too hard on it. Complacency is the gateway to divorce.”

“Parents still fighting?” he asked, all signs pointing to yes given her sudden infatuation with relationship metaphors.

“Ugh, always. It’s so ridiculous too, because somehow they still think their dysfunctional straight situationship beats out my unrelenting devotion to the female form.”

“Situationship?”

“They’re sleeping in separate bedrooms now. It’s creeping me out. I’d rather stay single for the rest of my life than end up like that. Listen to this—my mom paid to have her seat moved to the opposite end of the plane when they flew to Mexico. I didn’t even know you could do that. And they have the audacity to criticize _my_ relationships? No thanks.”

Ian gave his friend a sympathetic head scrub, pulling her close. “I’m sorry, Dal. Parents suck. They don’t deserve you.”

His phone vibrated and if he doubted how whipped he was before, almost toppling over to snatch up the device helped make his infatuation clear. Dallis kicked his ankle in envy.

_**You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up. Mornin’ baby.** _

“What’s it say?”

Ian had to make a conscious effort not to squeal like a love-struck adolescent. When he tipped his screen, she gagged.

“I hate you. He calls you baby, what are you—twelve?”

“Confront your jealousy, Dal,” he teased, blocking a jab to his ribs. “It’s a text thing, mostly. I like it.”

“Yeah, well, I think it’s too gay even for your rainbow ass. I’m going to die alone. This world is cruel, Ian. Cruel. There are not enough Mickey’s going around, and I’m tired of your stupid face.”

\----------

Mickey twisted into his pillow, muffling the noises his throat betrayed him with any time Ian’s texts lit up his screen. The redhead sent him a photo from his run, sunset at his shoulders, the sheen of sweat glistening across bare skin. Blurred palm trees confirming that not only was he in love with the perfect guy, but the perfect guy also lived in the same city, a stone's throw away. His smile grew painful on his face the more he tried to restrain it, soaking in the honeymoon phase. Every single interaction was sensational, even the awkward or scary ones that made his stomach clench. He had someone special to weigh into the balance of his life, and that made any dilemmas worth the effort of working through.

Mickey parked his makeup kit and roller bag of tools in front of the closet, his Beast costume still hanging on the rack behind it. Ian’s gesture wasn’t the type of affection that moved mountains, but it sparked warmth in Mickey’s belly to realize Ian had put it there in plain sight, instead of back in the bin tucked away—like maybe his work didn’t belong in the dark. Mickey’s gaze fell to the few items littering his dresser and bedside table, minimal décor the same as Ian’s room back at his apartment. Together they would still inhabit a simple space, but it would be more somehow. The type of fulfilment only a person you love with every cell in your body can bring. Fullness and purpose.

They stayed up too late talking about every fear they could invent while the night sky warned them to stop, but they craved confirmation and comfort. Particles of doubt remained at the edges of his mind, and he would put money on it that Ian was in the same position, but it was a start to something bigger than they could comprehend. Domestic benefits like knocking into each other with wayward, sleepy limbs while they dreamed, and waking up in a bed with less real estate to spare. Perks like hanging artwork they hauled away from a flea market, a random rustic bird cage Ian insisted on despite never having interest in the animals meant to occupy it. Ian hanging the portrait Mickey painted of him because he admired it exorbitant amounts but sticking out that chin of his when Mickey took it back down out of grating artists’ remorse.

Someone to babysit his adult sister when his film obligations trapped him for too many hours, stuck counting down the minutes until he could be home with them. The shit he swore away in his turbulent years, not knowing how integral it all would be.

Mickey filled his thermos with coffee, his ostentatious sibling prattling away in the living room about the consequences of dating guys with lame Tinder bios, griping about the injustices of Mickey finding his soul mate first. He only had half his attention to spare, the clock ticking faster than usual as he searched for energy to pull him through his last day at school until his duties on set were complete.

Any time he resorted to generic answers to Mandy’s plights, she was like a shark in blood infested waters. His guard was down, and his darling sister, as the Milkovich lineage wrote, ran with it. The moment he turned around to ransack the fridge with a placating grumble, she hijacked his phone.

“I’m not in the mood for this, Mandy.”

“Baby?” Mandy squawked, bouncing from cushion to cushion on the couch, preparing to evade Mickey’s reach. “You just lost every ounce of street cred you ever had.”

Mickey pinched the bridge of his nose, holding his other hand out. “I’m not fuckin’ around, okay? We’re already late.”

“Whose fault is that? I heard you giggling like a little bitch all night, Mick. Two grown adults with responsibilities, running up the phone bill like it’s the night before prom.”

“This isn’t a damn trampoline park. Would you quit jumping around already? Give it back so we can leave before neither of us have a job.”

“You’re not the boss of me!” she sang, waggling her forefinger. “And since you _insist_ on cringe pet names for your boyfriend, I’m willing to bet you’re not the boss of him either. My brother—the hardened thug turned film extraordinaire— _baby_ to the softest redhead on planet earth,” she continued, blonde hair swaying with her dramatics. “My question is, what happens when someone puts you a corner?”

Mandy held his phone up high, reciting his text messages with a boisterous voice, eyes widening the further she scrolled.

He closed his eyes, counting backwards. “Why do I even tolerate you?”

“Um—because you’re dating a fifteen foot freckled teddy bear you call _baby_ who transformed you into a cute little jellybean of gushy love.”

Mickey was not above making her walk to work. “I despise you. What’re you doing?”

Mandy’s finger flicked across the screen with enthusiasm, jaw hitting the floor. “Now it all makes sense.”

“What makes sense? What are you looking at?”

“I have one more question though,” she quipped, shimmying into the corner of the couch to brace herself. “How does that _thing_ even fit inside the human body?”

With a swift jolt forward, he grabbed her ankles, dragging her across the couch and onto the floor to retrieve his stolen phone. Her exaggerated howls all but shattered glass, one rough tickle under her armpit releasing the device back to its rightful owner. Ian was getting braver with the selfies he shared, and Mickey hadn’t quite wised up to the convenience of a locked folder. Sometimes a man had to learn the hard way.

She wheezed as chortles rocked through her body. “I’m serious, Mick. You might need stitches.”

“You’re twisted.”

“I’m not the one sitting on a fire hydrant.”

“Jesus Christ, get your shoes on so we can leave, _please_.”

\----------

Ian spent the last official week of school in the muggy, overcrowded computer lounge, completing the second leg of his Photoshop module. Boredom and confusion spun Ian’s brain into spaghetti, the bright monitors burning his strained eyes and piercing him with tension headaches. Eight hours in front of a computer trying to navigate a program he detested was not how he imagined the last stretch of his education. It didn’t help that the instructor spoke too fast, moving through the steps even faster. It was the only segment he thought he might flunk from a complete lack of interest. Time froze like tree sap. So when his teacher announced an early lunch break, he dropped his face on his keyboard to rest. It was all the energy he could muster. The sweltering heat stole his appetite, anyway. Late nights with Mickey were fantastic, but it intrigued him that soon they would indulge in enough of each other to let the other rest once in a while.

Computer fans whirred in misery, not unlike his interest in the course. A gruff voice interrupted Ian’s melancholy, one he had grown quite fond of. When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Mickey in his chest. His body garnered the same primitive reaction it had months before.

That man and all his expressive brow acrobatics were his, forever if he could make it so.

“Fuck, it’s hot in here.”

“Hey, Mick,” Ian mumbled, cheeks crunching the keys as he shifted. “Just a heads up, this class sucks, and you suck for not warning me. I’m mad at you.”

“Yeah, okay, Slacker,” Mickey teased, the door clicking shut behind him. “Where’s your water bottle?”

“Not supposed to have any drinks near the computers. I’ll grab something after. Maybe if I pass out from dehydration, I won’t have to finish.”

Mickey dropped into the chair beside him, reaching over to grab Ian’s armrest to pull them closer together. Ian lifted his head from the keyboard, only to rest it on Mickey’s lap with a yawn. When Mickey adjusted the height of his seat to accommodate Ian’s slothful cat nap, his cheeks stung from the sparks flickering in his belly. Still, the module was too horrendous not to whine. “Just leave me to die.”

Mickey scrubbed the tips of his fingers across Ian’s scalp, humming in thought. “That bad, huh?”

“This is so much harder than I thought. I’ve been trying to take notes, but she talks so fast I’m not sure we’re speaking the same language,” he groaned into Mickey’s thigh, angling his face to glimpse baby blues. “Focus better if you were here.”

“I doubt that,” Mickey smirked, the pad of his thumb tracing soothing lines along the contours of Ian’s ear. “I’ll leave you the key to my classroom. Won’t be here the rest of the week, but you’ve got an escape if you need it.”

“Blows, I won’t get to see you. How dare you have a career when I’m paddling shit’s creek with nothing but editing software and broken dreams?”

If laughter was medicine, Mickey’s was the entire cabinet. Ian’s weary muscles rejoiced as Mickey tried collecting himself through a fit of chortles. “How sad for you.”

“Tell me about it. I have to spend days— _days_ here without you. Who am I going to tease and buy treats for until they squirm with desire to see me naked?”

“Not a damn soul, if you know what’s good for ya.”

It would be remiss of Ian to waste a miniscule dose of possessiveness. “I’m all yours, Milkovich, but the trouble is, few people know that.”

“If you think I won’t spend the rest of my day printing off flyers with your ugly mug on them, warning people to stay away from my redhead or die, you’re dead wrong.”

Ian sat up to blink at his boyfriend, aghast and struggling against imminent laughter. 

“Too much, Gallagher? Alright. Sharpie it is, then. It’s a flawed system, but not without corporal punishment when disregarded. I’ll write Property of Mickey on your forehead like the cups of soup in the lunchroom, and it’s a done deal.”

“I know you didn’t just compare me to a cup of soup.”

He expected Mickey to hit him with sarcasm, maybe shove him off his lap, but a low growl had him shooting up in his chair to face the man. “Anyone tries fucking with you, it won’t go well for them.”

Ian’s dick twitched in his pants. “Right. So um, I forgot something in your classroom.”

Mickey’s hand slid up Ian’s thigh with a gentle squeeze. “Pretty sure you didn’t.”

“I did. I can’t live without it, super important. Let me show you.”

The pools of Mickey’s eyes darkened as the tip of his tongue peeked through his lips. “How much longer you got for lunch?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll catch up.”

He watched the tension build at Mickey’s jawline, gritting his teeth as he battled indecision.

“I still have your gift,” Ian cajoled, playing with the tear at the knee of Mickey’s jeans, wriggling beneath it with his finger. Mickey held his breath, letting it out in quiet puffs as Ian scratched soft circles against the bone there, sliding in further until the frayed opening stretched. “I meant to give it to you sooner. You were such a brilliant teacher.”

“Gallagher—”

“Have I ever told you how much I like your desk?”

There it was. The squirm Ian craved like sprinkles on a candy apple.

“It’s a good desk,” Mickey murmured, widening the gap between his legs, accentuating his crotch.

“I think it’s overdue for a quality test. Safety first, Mick.”

Their fingers laced in Mickey’s lap, chipping away at his resolve. “How can I deny important safety measures?”

“You can’t. It would be irresponsible.”

He slipped a hand under Mickey’s shirt, tickling the hair at his navel until his boyfriend let out a groan of surrender.

“You are the fuckin’ Devil—I hope you know that.”

Ian went in search of Mickey’s keys, fingers trailing down his back and groping his ass with both hands for effect. Mickey arched off the chair for easier access, tittering as Ian filched them from his back pocket with torturous leisure.

“Class starts in five minutes. Do not be late, Milkovich.”

\----------

The afternoon sun spilled through the windows at the back of Mickey’s classroom, the harsh gleam of polished steel hidden as Ian flipped the overhead lights off, one switch at a time. He couldn’t control the way his hands fidgeted as the redhead cleared his desk, careful not to leave it in disarray. In his fantasies, they threw it all onto the floor. But Ian loved him and respected his work. It would never be a quick and dirty fuck like he had experienced in the past. Jars that would crash to the floor and splatter, sat in a neat stack off to the side. Face charts and sculpts he spent hours perfecting, lifted and placed away from potential damage. It made Mickey’s skin tingle as he reached a nervous hand out for the door handle, locking it with a clack. The classroom was his, but Ian already owned everything that mattered to him by proxy.

Shadowed green eyes drifted from Mickey’s feet to his lips, lingering as weighted breaths became heavier. When Ian’s gaze fell on his own, adrenaline surged like a flash flood. The redhead’s fingers hitched the hem of Mickey’s shirt, pulling it over his head and dropping it onto the desk with intention, panting as he spoke.

“Hey, Mick?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Cut it out,” Mickey huffed with a humorless laugh, squeezing his eyes shut as the redhead dragged kisses across his stomach, convincing him one peck at a time how true his statement was. Cold air and Ian’s eager lips had his muscles flexing and twitching, a tattooed hand finding its way into soft copper strands, pressing him closer, inviting the scrape of his teeth and gentle nips at the skin above his belt. Jolts of heat made him shiver and swell. 

“I had to tell myself not to stare at your mouth every time you got close,” Ian confessed, sucking territorial marks on his hipbone, wet, slick sounds sending his head rolling back. “To keep my eyes on your eyes. But they’re so beautiful, too—my mind went blank.”

“What’re you buttering me up for, huh?”

Ian looked up at him from his knees, eyes glossy as he fumbled with the buckle of Mickey’s belt. “I love you. I need you to hear it.”

He didn’t notice release of the clasp, didn’t hear when his belt slid through his belt loops and dropped to the floor. Ian’s ragged breathing won out against it all. His sentimental words hanging over them like mistletoe. Beautiful was what he considered oil paintings on display in museums under focused light. Beautiful was drops of rainwater pooled on flower petals. It had never come to mind when he looked in the mirror. Ian showed him a reflection he didn’t know he needed.

“C’mere, Gallagher.”

Ian was off the floor and towering over him in a breath. Their lips brushed as Ian’s hands pressed at the small of his back, tiny noises skating between them, too subtle to hold back. A hand slipped down to his ass as kisses deepened, pulling them into a slow grind, Ian’s cock hardening against his stomach as the friction intensified, rivulets of sweat cooling the heat of their skin.

“Pick me up,” Mickey whispered, so quietly he hoped Ian wouldn’t hear it. Deep down he worshipped the way he fit in Ian’s arms. The redhead had him up off the ground in a single motion, bracing his hands at the base of Mickey’s neck and along his back as he wrapped his legs tight around Ian’s hard body. Their bodies collided with the wall, Ian using the leverage to slide a finger between Mickey’s ass cheeks, teasing his hole. Mickey was ready to shake apart, skin electrified, every hair on his body raised. He wanted to spend a lifetime coaxing Ian’s tongue further into his mouth until all he could do was suck the sweet taste from it.

They moved from the wall to the desk as unrestrained moans and thrusts left them lightheaded, their touches hungrier. The redhead sat him at the edge, dropping to his knees.

“Tell me what you want.”

Mickey spread his legs, dragging his thumb over the moisture at his slit, offering it up to Ian. The nerves in his arms fired all at once when the redhead sucked it clean. “I want that tongue.”

“Here?” Ian asked, licking a stripe along the inside of his thigh. “Or here,” he taunted, treating his other thigh to the same aching pleasure.

Mickey shook his head, a familiar prickle of heat spreading up his neck and across his cheeks.

“No? How about here?” Ian asked, teasing his balls with the tip of his tongue, his dick twitching with greed as the redhead sucked them into his mouth. The sensation gave him chills from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers, brimming with arousal.

“Lower.”

“Lower?” Ian smirked, sucking a kiss to his entrance with a moan. “Is this what you want—for me to stay down here, watching you come undone while I eat your ass?”

“Fuck.”

“Answer me, Mickey.”

“Yes—fuck yes.”

“Mm, I might need you to _teach_ me.”

Mickey snickered, slapping a freckled shoulder. “Quit.”

Ian grinned as he worked his rim, licking puckered skin until his body tremored against the chill of the wooden surface. Mickey bit his bottom lip to stifle the sounds threatening to burst from his chest as Ian’s tongue pressed inside, deep. One finger, then two sliding alongside it, wriggling until strings of pre-cum dripped at the head of his cock, too much to catch with his thumb. His cock pulsed as he tried to delay his release.

“You’re so close—I can feel it. God, it is so fucking hot Mickey. I wanna make you come.”

“Get up here.”

Ian reached for a tube of lubricant from his drawer, functional in the creations of masterful works of art but also in making love for the first time, only time, on the desk he delivered his teachings. Mickey’s body relaxed, swathed in love and giant, careful hands as Ian urged him to slide back and lay down, balling his cotton shirt under his head. Ian gazed down at him, hooded eyes lost in pleasure as he pressed inside, rocking them together, making up for the unforgiving hardness of oak with whispers of infatuated bliss and blinding arousal. The pace quickened, Ian’s groans crumbling into breathless whimpers, pounding him hard.

“Fuck—I’m already there,” Mickey rasped, clawing at freckled skin.

Ian’s whines grew louder, Mickey’s hand pressed against his mouth, high-pitched moans blending with guttural ones. His fingers weren’t enough to muffle the echo of Ian’s release, warm bursts filling him up and setting his orgasm into top gear between them.

Ian heaved a few breaths above him, before leaning down to lick a stripe of come from Mickey’s belly, moving to tease his sensitive nipples until it left them laughing, pulling each other in.

“Look at the mess you made,” Ian tittered, removing his shirt to clean what it would absorb, starting with Mickey’s body and working his way to his own. “We gotta be more careful next time.”

“Next time? No way, man. This was a onetime deal. We Christened the thing—you marked your territory.”

Ian clutched his bare chest like someone had struck him with a sword. “This was not about marking my territory. I’m offended!”

“How’d I fall for your shit—seriously? Mickey asked, letting the redhead wrap them into a tight embrace with a chuckle. “You have coerced me. Ginger persuasion.”

The redhead slid off the desk, grabbing the infamous sweater from the hook by the door. He held it open for Mickey to shrug over his shoulders. “Nah, I just realized the world crafted us for each other and it would’ve been the biggest mistake of my life if I didn’t share the excellent news.”

“Did you come to this staggering conclusion before or after you sniffed my sweater?”

Ian’s eyebrows shot up with a grin. “That’s it. I’m breaking up with you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” Ian teased, jutting his chin in defiance. “Game over. Better luck next time, bitch.”

“Mm.”

“Keep your filthy erotic noises to yourself. I’m impervious to your moans.”

Mickey shook his head, biting down on his lip to keep from laughing. “Does this mean I get to ask you out again?”

“I asked _you_ out.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did! I started the conversation, anyway,” Ian said, slapping Mickey’s hand away so he could zip the sweater himself. “Which makes sense, since I wear the pants in this relationship.”

“Hey Ian?”

“Hm?”

“Will you go out with me?”

They stood in the same spot they had months prior, desperate to touch the other but afraid to take that step. Ian quelled his anxieties, made it safe for him to branch away from his limitations, safe to follow his gut on its hard and fast trajectory. He hoped Ian would always chase him back, always love him.

The redhead beamed. “Fuck yes, I will."

“Guess who wears the pants now, _bitch_?” Mickey blurted, tossing him a spare shirt, speckled with paint and cement. “Get your ass back to class. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Can I see you tonight?”

Mickey reached up to cup Ian’s jaw, pulling him down for a kiss. “What did you have in mind?”

\----------

Ian finished class and sprinted to the parking lot, weaving through a sea of students and mall dwellers hoping to beat the worst of the afternoon traffic. Mickey had become the king of grand gestures and it inspired Ian to even out the field.

He raced home to shower and shave, tearing apart his closet for the millionth time in search of something to make Mickey’s eyelids heavy, and his teeth do that distracting scraping thing with his lips. Open cardboard boxes littered his bedroom floor and the foot of his bed, worn out blazers and tattered jean jackets slung over every surface. Mickey took him shopping before their trip, and Rhett sent him home with a couple shirts, but Ian tried to be modest about it. He hadn’t let Mickey splurge, and he figured wearing any threads from his boyfriend’s parents might not ignite the right sparks.

He wanted to show up in something Mickey hadn’t seen.

His hand skimmed the sophisticated and breezy suit still snug in the unzipped garment cover hanging at the back of his closet. Fiona’s parcels were becoming more elaborate as her newfound relationship with the illusive Jimmy-Steve developed. Ian couldn’t keep track of where in the world his sister was, as their trip was sporadic, but knowing she was chasing the love of her life was amusing and well deserved. She wrote a letter, apologizing that she wouldn’t be able to make it to his graduation, but it didn’t stop her from sending him an unexpected gift. An olive green linen suit, with a navy blue tie for his ceremony. It was a bold piece, something he wouldn’t have picked for himself, but Mickey said green was his colour, and Fiona had never been one to let him down.

A sardonic text from Mandy helped him catch his breath.

_**Why the shit is my brother shredding his room apart looking for ‘something fancy and sexy to wear but not too fancy and sexy’? I think he used the term dapper, WTF? Says he’s going for an Italian inspired mash-up, whatever the fuck that means, but I’m getting some major Playboy vibes. Get this monster out of my apartment.** _

If she caught the incident on camera, Ian wouldn’t hate her for it.

_**Help him pick something and I’ll send a gift home for you after our date tonight.** _

Ian reread her message, smiling to himself. He found someone to love who cared enough to fret about his outfit, and even though he’d accept Mickey in a potato sack with fervor, it made his stomach fizz with butterflies.

_**Fine, you twit. I accept your bribe, but don’t blame me if he smells like an entire bottle of cologne. Where are you taking his unworthy ass, anyway?** _

Ian discovered the restaurant during his early days in Los Angeles. It was one of his first noteworthy gigs in town, a call to fill in for a regular performer down with laryngitis. It paid better than any spot he had played since he arrived, and the crowd was as glamourous as the theatre style cultural landmark itself. The location intimidated him, sultry lighting, red velvet curtains and gold embellishments, but became a moment that separated him from his life on the Southside. Anything like it in Chicago hadn’t been accessible to him and his family. 

It motivated him to snap a few pictures before he left, something esoteric to send his siblings, a true taste of Old Hollywood. The schedule wasn’t ideal for him, advertising live music half the week, and on Saturdays, the weekend placement always filling up in advance, but the experience and the people it connected him to was compensation enough.

_**It’s a surprise. Do you know what time he’s on set tomorrow?** _

A luxury hotel sat across the street from the restaurant, a shining recommendation from Dallis. Her quest to become a connoisseur of everything romance inflated the more she vowed to never become her parents, and he adored her tenacity.

_**Early, why?** _

Shit. If there’s one thing he wanted to stay committed to, Mickey’s work responsibilities sat top of the list. 

_**I was thinking hotel after dinner. Bad idea?** _

What he would do without Mandy and Dallis, he would never know. Ian fussed with a Windsor knot in the mirror, hands clammy from anticipation. In the most literal sense, he stuck his tongue inside his boyfriend on his goddamn desk. He could not comprehend why his body insisted on a mental breakdown over a date. 

_**If it means I won’t have to tolerate your horny asses for one more night, you’ve got my vote. I’ll make sure he packs his work stuff.** _

A flood of panic rained over him. What if Mickey didn’t like it? What if the date was too elaborate for a weekday? It wasn’t Valentine’s Day, or their anniversary. How was he supposed to top it when an actual holiday rolled around? A thousand and one potential pitfalls skittered through his mind at once, his brain enjoying the unnecessary trip down torment lane far too much. He grabbed his guitar, careful not to wrinkle the temperamental fabric of his suit, taking a moment to give himself a nervous once over in the mirror. He smoothed his hand along the front of the jacket with a shrug, before darting downstairs to meet Mickey at the spot.

\----------

Mickey would kiss the feet of winter herself if the season were corporeal. Sweat dripped down his spine as he fumbled with the A/C, thanking whatever poor excuse for a guardian angel he had for the cooler temperatures. Nerves already made his armpits damp, but the suit would be unbearable to don in the summer. He clutched the steering wheel, drawing deep breaths into his lungs, hopeful that he and Ian would still be together by then.

The address was unfamiliar, but plugged into his GPS, a detailed rundown of the location left him too curious to ignore. Gallagher never failed to make his heart flutter. Nobody beyond his parents had ever taken him to an elegant restaurant where shined shoes caught the light, and in miraculous contrast, did not stick to the floor.

“Hel—hello?” Ian’s jittery voice rang through his speakers as Mickey pulled onto the street. “I’m driving, everything okay?”

“Hands-free?”

“What?”

“Your phone—where is it?” Mickey asked, worried he yanked his redhead into a bout of distracted driving.

“Did you call me just to trap me?” Ian teased, jitters less obvious as the tension in his tone lifted. “I’m not a _complete_ moron with technology, almost—but not _that_ bad. You bought me bells and whistles, I’m gonna use ‘em, Mick.”

The repetitive click of Ian’s turn signal kept the line busy, while Mickey’s stomach dove into an 80s aerobic routine. He swallowed hard, finding his vocal cords again. “Where are ya?”

“Fifteen minutes out. Gonna stand me up, Milkovich?”

The uneasy edge to Ian’s wisecrack query stood out to Mickey. “Never, Red. Got all dressed up for you,” he murmured, heat prickling at the base of his neck. “What are you wearing?”

“First you call me, now you’re trying to seduce me. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me involved in a fender bender.”

“Hilarious,” Mickey huffed, the very idea unbearable. “Just wanted to hear your voice. I’m all nervous and shit.” He could hear Ian smile from miles away. A better feeling did not exist. “Are you?”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah.”

A breathy laugh made Mickey’s heart skip, the redheads’ response more than adequate. They fidgeted over the phone, neither saying anything of value, both too enraptured to disconnect. Instead of the radio, or their favourite music, they played each other the muffled melody of passing cars with squeaky brakes, and the odd breathless titter.

When they pulled into the parking lot, Ian was only one car ahead of him in line for valet. Mickey being a witness to Ian’s inexperience through the speakers of his car was the best way to kick off a night together, the redhead firing off a dozen questions and demands to an already frazzled parking attendant.

Humor spilled into erratic thumps pounding through Mickey’s chest, bone dry mouth and sweaty palms, as they met at the doors. Ian had always been handsome, but standing there with his guitar at his back, tie devoid of a solitary wrinkle, hair bright as the orange tipped sky, devastating. A beautiful way to invite a panic attack, if the redhead hadn’t made quick work of wiping his mind blank with playfully peppered kisses to his lips and cheek. It made for an embarrassing display, but he was too damn smitten to give a shit.

“You look incredible,” Ian said, beating him to the punch with a last kiss to his forehead. “My boyfriend is fucking hot.”

“Alright, Romeo. Let’s get a move on before they arrest us for public indecency.”

Ian chuckled, holding the door open for him with a toothy grin. “You are hot, though. Like—I think we’ll need to request a taller tabletop.”

“Oh, for your giant cock? Get over yourself,” Mickey snorted, barking out a laugh that echoed from the walls as Ian pinched his ass hard enough to sting.

A dainty hostess in an all black trouser suit beamed at them, flipping through a leather-bound book. “Welcome, gentlemen. Reservation for—?”

“Gallagher,” Ian croaked, the obnoxious clearing of his throat warming Mickey from the inside. “Ian.”

She skimmed her finger over the page with a slight frown. “Okay, perfect. It says here—”

“Please don’t read the note,” Ian blurted, stopping to straighten out his jacket. “It’s a surprise.”

Mickey grabbed Ian’s hand and attention with a single yank. “This is the thing, right? Us being here is the surprise.”

A lopsided smile pulled at the redheads’ lips. “I know you peeked at the GPS link, you dick.”

Ian dragged him by their laced fingers, the hostess giggling at their antics as they weaved through crowded tables. Mickey wasn’t a punk by any means. He hadn’t thrown a sincere sucker punch in his existence, but he was not above a discreet scuffing of his expensive shoes on the carpet to build up a decent static charge.

The hostess led them to their seats with an open hand, chairs on the same side of the table facing the stage. They nodded in thanks as she passed them two menus, Mickey waving off the second one. “We’ll share.”

Ian’s bashful smile lit up his eyes, the perfect time to reach his sneaky, tattooed fingers to the back of Ian’s neck and — “Ouch!” the redhead cried out. “You motherfucker!”

Mickey keeled over, laughing into his forearm as a distraught army of freckles formed in creases on his forehead. He glanced up at the glistening, boiling emeralds piercing holes in his poor etiquette, lungs burning. “Love you, Gallagher.”

“Don’t you gimme that shit! I try to take your ass out for a delightful meal, and you _electrocute me_?”

Another guttural fit of laughter split through Ian’s indignation, his attempt at lividity weakened by the permanent smirk on his face. Mickey used his tongue to his advantage, sliding it into the corner of his mouth to draw those green eyes in for good measure. It worked every time. “You didn’t say it back. How very uncool of you, Red.”

“No, no. You don’t get to shift the blame here, Mickey. Tuck those nicknames back in your pocket of manipulation. I ain’t having it,” Ian said, jutting his chin in faux resentment.

“Gallagher,” he purred, fingers squeezing Ian’s muscular thigh with fervor. “Sweet Gallagher. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“Pathetic.” 

“Don’t be that way,” Mickey drawled, cheeks on fire. “I didn’t mean it. Nobody taught me how to walk on fancy rugs, Freckles.”

Ian turned his head to hide his face, shoulders bouncing as he stifled his own chortles. “You’re the worst.”

“Come on. Give me some sugar, baby. I’m freezing over here without you.”

Ian scooted in his chair to face him, the lights dimming for the first performance. Ian’s goofy smile faded, Adam’s apple bobbing through a hard swallow. Mickey’s wild heart slithered into his throat. Nobody had the power to shake him apart, quite like the gorgeous redhead sitting just inches away.

“I love you so much it hurts, Mick.” It was a whisper. “Come ‘ere.”

He leaned in, giant hands closing in on his face with a _ZAP!_

“You’re kidding,” Mickey jolted, almost head-butting the shithead in reaction to the attack. “You’ve been what—” he gasped, lifting the heavy tablecloth to uncover two friction creased, guilty shoes. “—sliding your damn feet around incognito? Unbelievable.”

Ian shrugged, dipping his head when a nearby table shushed them. “Should’ve known better.”

“What goes around comes around.”

“All is fair in love and war, baby.”

Ian might not be the one in need of the taller table, after all. Mickey adjusted the crotch of his pants, elbowing the redhead who was actively gawking at him with a shit-eating grin. “You’re gonna miss the opening act, creep.”

A brawny arm slid across Mickey’s shoulder, pulling him close. “They’re never the most memorable, anyway.”

\----------

The band performing was decent, new wave and flashy enough to keep the crowd entertained without cheapening the artsy atmosphere. Two beers in, and already Mickey melted into his environment, sidelong glances at a cheerful Ian, thawing him further.

They shoveled an unlawful serving of cheese laden appetizers and fresh bread into their bellies, Mickey’s shirt stretching across his buttons in protest. Ian chose their entrees the third time their server came around, their meals still twenty minutes out, nowhere near enough time to make room, Mickey was sure of that. The redhead set his target to pamper, and it was a bullseye. The sore stomach would be worth it.

“Eh, squirmy, what’s going on?” Mickey asked, steadying the knee bouncing next to his. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” Ian said, his fork falling unceremoniously onto his plate. “Gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Everything alright?”

“Y-yeah, great. Forgot to pee before I left my apartment, that’s all.”

“Go.”

Ian nodded, tossing the napkin in his lap onto the table. “Will you wait here?”

“Where else would I need to be?”

“Just don’t leave, okay?”

Mickey’s chest tightened, the uncertain lines on Ian’s face strumming every heart string. “Promise.”

The redhead was off like a bullet, leaving Mickey to ponder when he might have contributed to the redhead’s abrupt insecurity. He was enjoying every minute of their time together. Nothing could make him walk away. Ian showed him the most beautiful sides of romance, and his threshold was only deepening. A good thing, considering what was about to take place on stage.

The lead singer of the band stepped forward after guzzling a bottle of water, smiling at the crowd. “We’re taking a brief intermission, but I’d like to welcome a fellow musician to the stage in the meantime. Someone who crashed into our lives a year ago and showed us all how to live our lives to the fullest.”

Mickey looked over his shoulder for any hint of Ian’s return. He wouldn’t want to miss whatever was about to go down.

“This kid travelled a long way to change his stars, a true hustler with a lot of heart. Please give him a warm welcome.”

And then it happened. Out walked the redhead, guitar at the ready, eyes drifting across the crowded restaurant to a frenzy of applause. The lights were low in the dining room, the spotlight on Ian more vivid. The man was nervous, Mickey could feel it, but his presence on stage was influential. Ian bowed his head in appreciation, gaze landing on Mickey with such intensity he thought he might float, before fixing his focus back on his guitar.

“Hey, um. I’m Ian Gallagher, from Southside Chicago. I came here hoping to find inspiration, a reason to keep going, really. If you’re familiar with the Southside, then you know that is not so common,” Ian nodded at the knowing laughs around the room, and a loud whoop from somewhere at the back. “Anyway, I got super lucky and found something better than I could have dreamed. This is ‘Hanging by a Moment' by Lifehouse."

Ian took a step back, wiping his palms on his pants, before leaning into the microphone too fast, sending the stand rocking. A clumsy hand brushed his hair from his forehead. “Oh, I dedicate this to Mickey. You make me believe in soul mates and every Hallmark thing, but you also help me believe in myself. You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever known. Uh—yeah. That’s it. Thanks.”

Mickey tipped his head back to keep his tears from spilling, misty eyes and eager heads turning in all directions to expose the receiver of Ian’s open mic love letter. He let the crowd have their blissful ignorance and sat back in the shadows, to drink in the man he adored.

_I'm falling even more in love with you_   
_Letting go of all I've held on to_   
_I'm standing here until you make me move_   
_I'm hanging by a moment here with you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for keeping your comments kind. Your feedback has been supportive and respectful, and that truly makes the experience much more enjoyable to participate in. I always look forward to reading your responses, long or short. Means the world. You guys are the best. 
> 
> I've been under the weather, but I'll be back in full swing soon. I hope you enjoy.


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